


All Tied Up and No Place to Go

by Fisticuffs



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8621449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fisticuffs/pseuds/Fisticuffs
Summary: Five hours is a longer time in practice than in theory.





	1. All Tied Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m actually more of a Flynn/Lucy shipper, but in the Watergate episode, Flynn had Wyatt tied to a chair. With five hours to kill. They are both hot. I can’t ignore these very valid points.

Wyatt had the nail in his hand. He flipped it back and forth between his fingers, attempting to discern which end was pointed. What a close call it was with such a blunt, aged thing. And then, of course, whenever he figured that part out, he got to find the small, circular hole in his handcuffs to pick. He had to do it all backwards and restrained. It was discouraging, but he had nothing but time to himself to get it right.

Flynn came and went from the room he kept Wyatt captive in. He stayed long enough to push his buttons, with the last being the worst. Flynn talking about Jessica, going off with details he had no right to know about that night, Wyatt could barely keep his temper restrained. Flynn riled him and left, riled him and left. Either he was bored or he liked antagonizing Wyatt. Maybe it was both.

That was when he entered again, ready to spark some fresh Hell. Flynn was composed, collected. He tossed a brown paper bag onto the chest of drawers and stood there looking at Wyatt, regarding him. Wyatt closed his hand around the nail.

Flynn stared. He stared. Something was on his mind, some new conversation Wyatt was not in the mood for. Flynn stared.

“What?” Wyatt snapped at him.

The intensity of his focus broke. Flynn blinked. He shrugged. “It’s an odd thing, isn’t it, waiting?” he said. “Just... waiting. You give people a timeline, an ultimatum, and it always _sounds_  intimidating, doesn’t it?” He inhaled deeply and it swelled up his chest beneath that fitted vest he wore. “They worry their little heads off when, really, the entire time, you might as well be watching sand pass through an hourglass.” He flicked his finger over and over like he was tracking grains of sand that dropped. He studied the flow as if he could see those shifting sands. He watched them. “It’s boring, isn’t it?” Flynn shook his head and snapped himself from his own trance. “Can you imagine that for another hour-and-a-half? Can you?” Wyatt said nothing. “Well, at least I have some... amusing company, I guess I could call you.” Flynn grabbed a chair and scraped its legs across the old wood floor. He sat facing him. “I like you, Wyatt,” he said. “I do. I think... I believe... we have more in common than either of us wants to admit. It’s unadvised. They tell us that. You see yourself in the enemy and when it comes time to pull the trigger...” He shaped his hand into a gun and pointed it directly at Wyatt’s forehead. It was perfectly still and level until he spoke again, then it quivered. “When it’s time to pull... the trigger, you hesitate.” He dropped his hand down on his thigh with a slap. “So you hate me; I hate you; and everything is... easier, neater.”

“Do you have a mercy policy?” Wyatt inquired. “You know, one where you just kill me now and I don’t have to listen to you anymore?”

Flynn laughed. “Keeping calm, keeping your spirits up,” he said. “They teach that too. You’re doing a marvelous job, by the way. I can see why they picked you to kill me. You must be nothing but a long list of glowing commendations and recommendations.” He looked Wyatt over again and nodded. “I’ve been where you are, you know, and in service to my country, no less.”

“Handcuffed by some psycho in the past,” Wyatt retorted. “And here I thought I was special.”

“Handcuffed, yes,” Flynn said. “Held captive, certain I was going to die, at the mercy of the merciless, experiencing everything they prepare you for, that you hope you will never actually confront. I know... what you are feeling.”

“Then let me go.”

“I’m sympathetic,” Flynn told him. He clicked his tongue. “I am not stupid. You are their toy soldier, Wyatt, one of hundreds right out of the box, working blindly at the behest of a corrupt system I have declared war on. I let you go, you kill me, because they’ve told you to. And what a little good boy you are, hm?”

Wyatt had a few different plans of attack in mind. He would choose his favorite when the moment came, when the lock in his handcuff clicked open. But currently, he kept his hands still, lest the clacking metal be heard.

Flynn looked at his watch and sighed. He tapped his foot on the floor with an impatient clatter. “One hour and twenty-six minutes left,” he said, displeased by the dawdling passage of time. “I’m certain this is going much quicker for you though, isn’t it?”

“Slower now that you’re here,” Wyatt replied with a sarcastic grin. “Hey, if you keep talking, time might stop altogether, huh?”

“You want to talk?” Flynn asked. “Let’s talk.” Wyatt did not want to talk, but leave it to him to take the comment literally. Flynn sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. They were so close that the toe of his shoe almost touched Wyatt’s knee. “Tell me,” he began, then he stopped and shook his head. “I must warn you now this is a rather, uh, personal question.” Wyatt said nothing one way or the other. Permission or refusal, Flynn was going to talk. He did. “Wyatt, have you been with anyone else since your wife?” he asked. It was an unusual subject, in no way what was expected. “It’s all right if you have. I know it’s been a few years for you. How many now? Four?” Wyatt did not answer. He did not even look the man in the eye. Flynn had the number. He knew exactly how long Jessica had been dead. “Personally, I haven’t. I have not been with anyone new. But then... Well, I have been a little busy lately.” He stopped talking and, being the sole benefactor of the conversation, it ended. Flynn’s eyes lost their focus. They became lifeless and preoccupied by contemplation. “It’s not,” he said, “that I am bothered by the abstinence.” He chuckled but it was hollow and distracted from amusement. “I don’t care one way or the other, to be honest. But there is a... moment... at the end. There’s that moment, Wyatt, that brief flash of time when you think of nothing else. It’s all very scientific: hormones, endorphins, all of that.” He made a noncommittal gesture at his head and at his brain, an abortive flick of the hand. “I feel as though I’ve aged ten years in two,” he confided. “I have... forgotten... what it’s like to think of nothing— to think of _nothing_... to set aside my worries and my fears, to abandon them, to live as a free man again, if only for a... for a moment, if only for a second. What I would give to have that... What I would give to ta... to take it.” He stopped speaking again. He sat. They sat. Flynn thought secret thoughts that came to maturation. He reached a decision. He nodded. He stood. He exhaled.

Flynn’s jacket was gone already. He began divesting himself of the next layer. Wyatt waited patiently and passively to see where things were going, what grand conclusion Flynn arrived at.

“You know something?” the man asked as he undid his vest slowly and methodically, taking care with each button he fed through its hole. “Well, I’m sure you know,” he said with a laugh. “The truth is you are a very attractive man.” Wyatt scoffed and rolled his eyes. “See,” Flynn grinned, “see, I knew that you knew. I knew. You do have eyes after all.” He nodded. “I do as well. You are attractive, Wyatt.” Flynn gestured at himself, from his shoulders down his legs. “Just as... I know you’ve noticed I’m attractive, yes?” Wyatt opened his mouth with a hateful comment that never came. Flynn interrupted him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know you won’t admit to it out loud. I don’t expect you to.” He slipped a finger behind the knot of his tie and pulled it loose. “I have no such expectations from you, my friend.”

“We are not friends,” Wyatt stated, the first words he had uttered in a few minutes. His participation pleased Flynn.

“No,” he agreed. “No, we are not.” He placed his tie with his jacket and vest and began with his shirt. His slow, lazy movements were hypnotic in their own way. Wyatt watched from boredom, curiosity, and the knowledge that there was nothing better to look at than the wall. Flynn laid his shirt with the rest of his clothes.

“I see it left a mark,” Wyatt said. “Place I shot you.” He nodded at the sloping muscle between Flynn’s shoulder and neck.

“Oh, yes.” He reared his head back to look at the mostly healed over skin. It would scar indefinitely. “I meant to thank you for that.” His fingers curled tight. The fist came swiftly to Wyatt’s cheek, just one punch, just one time. It could have been worse. There was no blood or loose tooth. He would bruise, but bruises fade. Moving to talk did sting a little.

“Bastard,” he muttered. “You already got me back.”

“Do tell.” Flynn was intrigued. They had exchanged bullets a few times, but it was often difficult to see if any of them landed.

“Stomach,” Wyatt told him. “Before the Lincoln assassination. Lucky I didn’t die of sepsis.”

Flynn grinned and tilted his head to the side inquisitively. He pointed to Wyatt’s abdomen. “May I?”

“No.”

He did.

His long fingers moved with such dexterity and poise, opening Wyatt’s shirt like he was an artist, managing it despite Wyatt rocking and fighting. The chair moved underneath him as he tried to push Flynn off, but the man continued as though he did not notice. Wyatt flexed and strained his arms, but it got him nowhere. Flynn unbuttoned his shirt unimpeded. “You look good in pink, by the way,” he remarked. “You should consider it more often. No, really,” he insisted, arguing with Wyatt’s glare. “It goes with your skin and with your eyes. Let me see those eyes.” Scrunching them closed seemed childish and petty, but maybe Wyatt was not as mature as he thought. “That’s quite all right,” Flynn said. “Perhaps later then.” He undid the last button and pulled the material off Wyatt’s front. He pushed it back over his arms, restraining him further with the tight sleeves. Flynn admired the wound he dealt. The field surgery Rufus attempted had left a less beautiful scar than Flynn’s. There were scratches from a knife clawing outward, pale now, but still jagged and messy. Flynn’s hands were cold as they touched it, fingered it, pressed on an injury still sore in the smallest of ways. “So we are even,” he said. Now, they were less so. “I tell you what, if Lucy comes through for you, if you get... free from all of this, you owe me a punch. Is that fair to you?”

“I’ll give you more than a punch,” Wyatt threatened.

“Promises, promises,” Flynn dismissed, “empty promises.” He stepped away.

Wyatt had seen men take their shirts off before. It had a purpose. It prevented blood stains from fighting or torture. Flynn unbuckling his belt was new.

“Whoa, wait,” Wyatt said, stopping the man, making him pause. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh.” Flynn looked down at the hands on his belt and laughed. “Was it not obvious? I apologize. I seem to have... overestimated your intelligence.” Very plainly he informed, “We’re going to have sex.”

The most logical explanation was Wyatt heard that wrong. “Excuse me?”

“Sex,” Flynn repeated, perfectly blasé about the declaration. “You and I and intercourse. That should kill half-an-hour, if we make the most of it.”

“No way! No way in hell,” Wyatt yelled. “Uh-Uh.”

“Not asking.” Flynn pulled his belt free and set it atop his other clothes on the chest of drawers. He touched the paper bag but did not yet pick it up.

“This- This, uh...” Wyatt was sputtering. Flynn had a definite advantage towards making it happen. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Flynn shrugged. Not even he knew. “I’m crazed, aren’t I?” he said. “I believe that’s how you said it, a ‘creepy sociopath.’ By your logic, I should never need motivation for anything.” He smiled. “It’s quite liberating really.”

He approached Wyatt, and his intentions, while partially disclosed, were disturbingly unfathomable. He sat in the chair in front of Wyatt but pulled it even closer, leaving only enough space for their legs in between. Wyatt tried to kick the chair back, but Flynn regained balance and countered by stomping on Wyatt’s foot. It hurt. He leaned forward and Wyatt recoiled. Flynn’s hands hesitated in the air but quickly resumed their intention. He touched the bare skin of Wyatt’s collarbone. He moved up. His body leaned further in. Wyatt flinched.

“Don’t worry,” Flynn assured him with a calm tone. “I’m not going to kiss you.” He dragged his fingers over Wyatt’s cheek as a substituted intimacy. “No, you see, the last person I kissed was my wife, and I am... not yet ready to erase that.”

“But you’ll have sex,” Wyatt replied, mocking his abstinence in only the one area.

“Sex is sex,” he said. “It only becomes intimate if we permit. Let’s see if we can prevent that, hm?”

Flynn trailed one finger down Wyatt’s chest and torso. It almost tickled. When the hand arrived at his belt, Wyatt tried to kick him away again. Flynn grabbed his crotch through the material of his pants and squeezed. Wyatt’s breath caught in his chest. He tensed and fidgeted against the sharp, pinching sting. The grip did not let up until he stopped moving and stopped fighting. Then he was released. Flynn petted him through his pants, an apology for his temper.

“Stop that, Wyatt.” It was his warning. It implied further pain or a rope tied around his ankles, possibly both.

Wyatt was supposed to fight. He had spent years doing it. But for the moment, Flynn had the upper hand. He had the only hands. There was grace in defeat. Wyatt waited for his next opportunity.

Flynn removed his belt and dropped it on the floor with a loud clang. The button and the zipper came undone with much less resistance. Flynn slid his fingers into the waist of his underwear and pants. “Up,” he ordered, calling for Wyatt to lift his body off the chair.

“No.”

Flynn still managed to get his pants down. It simply took more effort. He pulled them just past his knees, and Wyatt could barely move his legs. He flexed against the material, but it was a tough, thick blend with no give. Flynn hummed in his throat as he regarded his naked lap.

“Take a picture,” Wyatt snapped. He was beyond humiliated.

“Cameras are a chore in this decade,” Flynn said, “and far less accessible.” He hesitated only once before he touched Wyatt’s cock. His fingers were less cold but still not warm enough to be pleasant. Nothing about the situation was pleasant.

“Bastard,” Wyatt growled.

He was ignored.

Flynn closed his hand into a fist, applying a satisfactory amount of pressure, not too tight, not too loose. That did not mean Wyatt enjoyed the attempt. He was not at all attracted to the man or inspired by the situation. What end Flynn was aiming for would not come. He continued jerking Wyatt in his hand, pumping his soft cock. “I don’t think he likes you,” Wyatt remarked, feeling satisfied he could say it. Flynn was less pleased.

“Do you know, Wyatt,” he said, “that there is internal stimulation for men? It’s true.” Flynn let go with his hand. His fingers went lower. Wyatt tensed. “But,” he continued, “like most other masculine pleasures, it can also be experienced externally.” Flynn put his thumb against the skin beneath Wyatt’s balls. He pressed down— hard. There was nothing. Flynn moved his thumb over and pressed again. There was nothing. The third time was the unfortunate charm.

“God!” Wyatt’s entire body jolted. What an unpleasant, exhilarating surprise it was. He never wanted to know it again. He wanted Flynn to repeat it as soon as possible. Completely unprompted, the man did. He pushed his thumb in and experimented with pressure, massaging Wyatt through the skin. It felt like losing. It felt like winning.

“There we go,” Flynn spoke. Wyatt realized that those fingers of his were actually accomplishing something now. He massaged with one hand and pulled with the other, giving an adequate handjob. “There we go.” And against his will, Wyatt began getting hard. “For a moment I thought... other efforts would be required of me.” Wyatt did not know what those were or if they were good or bad. Flynn gave more attention to his stroking hand, prioritizing that stimulation now that his cock was hard. He rubbed a finger over the head and Wyatt jerked. He almost moaned. “Sensitive,” Flynn observed. “I see you have been busy after all. Perhaps too busy for yourself even.”

“Shut up,” Wyatt sneered.

“I’m not your wife,” Flynn said, “but I’ll do my best to make it feel... good, my favor to a dying man.”

“I’d rather you just get away from me.”

“If wishes were horses, Wyatt,” he said, “beggars would ride.” He continued his efforts, and despite himself, Wyatt felt an end nearing. Flynn stared at where they joined. “So sensitive,” he murmured. “Try to make this last, huh. It’d be a shame, wouldn’t it, if this was your last time and you didn’t make it but a few minutes.”

“Shut up.”

“And then, of course, we would be... very bored again.” He let his other hand hold and grasp Wyatt’s balls, and damn it did feel good. He was almost there. He was almost there. He grunted. And Flynn took his hands away.

Wyatt dragged his head forward to look at the man. He was not surprised by the torment, and yet he was dismayed. “Wha...” He voice was broken up by panting. “Wha... Why?”

“We’re not finished,” Flynn said. He stood up and left Wyatt. “We’ve barely begun.” He recovered the brown paper bag he tossed during his entrance. It crinkled when he opened it. “Difficult finding certain items during certain time periods,” he said. “I’m learning that as we go. In the modern day we can have... anything we want, and we have it almost as quickly as we want it.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” From the bag, he removed a box and a tube. “Well, I’m _told_  these were difficult to find anyway. As you know, I cannot... roam the city. But my men were happy to acquire these for me. Oh,” he interrupted himself, “if it comes up, if they should ask, let’s say this went the other way.”

“‘Other way,’” Wyatt repeated. “What the hell does that mean, other way?”

“It means,” Flynn said, explaining without explaining, “that my intentions are perhaps the opposite of what you’re fretting about.”

“Special kind of vague,” Wyatt criticized. It could mean anything. He was not optimistic enough to believe it meant no sex entirely. Flynn remained set on that. He conveyed his message through demonstration.

His shoes, socks, pants, and underwear were taken off all together and in that order. He placed them neatly with the rest of his clothing and stood there completely nude. Somehow, Wyatt still felt worse off. He looked ridiculous with his pants bunched around his knees and his shirt pushed back behind his shoulders.

Flynn had more scars than the one Wyatt gave him. They littered his body in different shades and severities. He was a tough son of a bitch. His stomach had an extra layer of fat that came from approaching the beginnings of middle age, but behind it and around it was defined muscle. Flynn remained in shape. He was not wrong in what he said earlier. He was attractive, and Wyatt knew that. It did not mean he was attracted to him. And the erection between the man’s legs did absolutely nothing for Wyatt sexually. It gave him anxiety. That was all.

The chair in front of Wyatt was positioned further back again, not too far away, but not so close as to obstruct the space that was needed. Flynn sat. He put the box on the floor (condoms, as Wyatt could now see) but kept the tube. He opened it. “I haven’t... done this in a long time,” Flynn confessed, “years, in fact, several, several years.” Wyatt began to think he understood. He was caught off guard by the development but was not averse to it, not after expecting its, as Flynn had said, opposite. Flynn squeezed some of the lube onto the middle fingers of his hand. He picked his leg up and propped his foot against the chair next to Wyatt. He was certainly on display. He lowered his fingers to his ass, and Wyatt could not look. He turned his head to stare at the drooping, tattered remnants of ugly wallpaper.

“I’m not gay.”

“Neither am I,” Flynn said. He made a little grunt, and it was sinful. Wyatt’s cheeks were hot and no doubt turning very red. “Attraction is inherently unique to the individual. Men, women, both, neither, it doesn’t change the facts though... Mm... It doesn’t change what feels good. You should try it sometime.” He paused to take a deep breath. His foot pawed at and twitched against the chair it was supported on. “You should. It doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Do you know why you’ll lose, Wyatt?” He chuckled. “Why you’ve lost?”

The instinct to challenge made Wyatt forget why he was avoiding looking at the man. He returned his head forward and witnessed a sight far more obscene than his imagination had allowed. Flynn’s face was flushed. His two middle fingers were slick and glossy as they moved in and out of himself. The outer fingers framed that lewd display. The sight of it trapped Wyatt. He could not look away. It was the exact last position he ever expected to see an enemy in. Flynn dragged his fingers out, and they were so long it took forever. What a teasing image. He pulled them apart at the end, and Wyatt watched as they stretched the puckering skin tight around them. Wyatt was not necessarily turned on by it, but watching Flynn maintained his erection which had been flagging.

He remembered the man asked him a question. “Wh- Why’s that?” He swallowed. “Why will I lose?”

“You’re inflexible,” he said.

“Seems like you’re flexible enough for the both of us.” Flynn’s long leg bent closed at such an acute angle was indeed impressive. His abdomen curled over like he had no spine. His grin was wider than was natural.

“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I think you should know that. How could I hate you? How could I? You’re just a grunt after all, aren’t you? Yes. Wake when told, eat when told, sleep when told, go where told, do as told, shoot... whom you are told, and never... ever question... what it is that you are told. No, you’re a good man, I think. Yes, a good man. Just an... unfortunate pawn. It’s not your fault you’re playing for the wrong team.”

“Is that supposed to be a euphemism?” Wyatt retorted.

Flynn smiled. “You need to learn freedom, Wyatt,” he said. “You need to think for yourself and damn any consequence. Do not conform to- to orders or expectations. Now, I know you won’t... betray your country. You won’t join me even though you want to. You won’t admit that you want to come with me, that together, Wyatt, together we can change history, get our loved ones back. You are stuck in an... immobile little box, a scrunched up position. So... let’s rebel a little, hm? Let’s help you stretch your legs, do what isn’t expected. And for it, there are no consequences. I think you’ll like that, yes. What we are doing here never has to leave this room,” Flynn promised him.

“What you’re doing to me,” Wyatt corrected.

There was a wet noise when Flynn removed his fingers. “I think... I’m ready now.”

“I’m- I’m not,” Wyatt said, hating that he stammered getting it out.

“I know.” As with Wyatt’s overall captivity, Flynn was sympathetic to the fact he did not want it. His decision was unchanged. He took two condoms from the box. One he tossed in Wyatt’s lap. The other he rolled onto himself. “Neater,” he explained. “We still have to be presentable when it’s finished, don’t we?” Flynn leaned over him. He gave his cock a little attention to get it back to full hardness. His fingers were warm, and Wyatt responded better to them. Flynn put the second condom on him and applied lube. His hand moved so much easier. That was it. Preparation was finished. There was nothing left but it: sex. Flynn stood from his chair.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Wyatt exclaimed. “Wait.” Flynn obliged him with a pause. Wyatt contemplated the nail clutched tight in his fist. Sometimes he could pick a lock in a few seconds. Sometimes it took much longer. He did not know which it would be. He did not want Flynn to realize what he was doing and take his one tool of escape. Wyatt pleaded instead. “Please, Flynn, we can... This doesn’t have to happen. Stop now and- and we go our separate ways— or you kill me, whatever. If you do this... it’s always gonna be a thing that- that happened. Are you really okay with that?”

Flynn gave his answer the appropriate consideration. He actually listened to Wyatt’s words. “No,” he honestly said. “But also yes.” He had made his decision already, before Wyatt even knew what was going to happen. Garcia Flynn did not subject his decisions to doubt.

“Then,” and Wyatt could not believe it when he said, “get it over with I guess.”

Flynn admired his resolve. “We’ll go slowly,” he promised. He put one leg on either side of Wyatt’s and lowered himself to straddle his lap. His fingers took hold of his cock to keep it standing up. Flynn inhaled. He exhaled and lowered himself.

It was tight. It was good. Godddamn him. He went slowly, like he said. It allowed them both the time to adjust. Wyatt breathed through his nose, desperately trying to keep his composure. Flynn groaned and sunk lower. He picked his hips up before moving them back down, continuing with that rhythm, stimulating Wyatt and himself until he was all the way to the end. He waited before moving.

“Breathe,” he coached Wyatt.

“You breathe!”

“I’m trying.” He laughed, finding humor from his difficulty in adjusting. “It has been a while,” he reiterated.

“Just...” Wyatt felt unbearably awkward giving advice, trying to help him. “Slow, right?”

Flynn nodded his head. “Slow.” He put his hands on the back of Wyatt’s chair to brace himself. Gradually, he began to move his hips.

It was incredible, and Wyatt could admit that in the safety of his own mind. Flynn was tight from his reported disuse. And either he was a natural at the way he was gyrating or else some tremendous muscle memory was kicking in. Wyatt had no idea what the man’s past experiences with gay sex were like, but he was reaping the benefits of that expertise.

“Is that good?” Flynn asked, either checking on him or needing some sort of sick validation. Wyatt would not give it. “Hm?” Wyatt did not answer. Flynn continued moving. He continued fucking himself on Wyatt’s cock like he truly wanted it. He kept moving. Then he stopped. Flynn gripped him harshly by the chin and moved his head, forcing eye contact. He asked again, enunciating every syllable in that damn accent of his, “How... does... it feel?”

Wyatt’s jaw was immobile, so he clenched his teeth and hissed spiteful words between them. “Go to Hell, you son of a bitch.”

Flynn let go of his face and brushed the hand through his hair instead. Wyatt pulled away from the touch, and Flynn did not pursue him. “I’m already there, Wyatt.”

There was no sympathy for such a remark, not in the middle of what was happening. Wyatt had no pity for him. “Move or get off.”

The man continued sitting motionless in his lap. Wyatt wanted to resume it, to buck up. He never would. It was a torturous stalemate. Flynn leaned forward. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” he murmured in Wyatt’s ear.

“Define interesting.”

“Stubbornness,” he said, sitting back to say it. He ass rubbed and weighed against Wyatt’s balls. His insides squeezed him. “The stubbornness from us both. We could sit here, you and I, never finishing, never... moving.” He smirked. The straight line of teeth was devilish. He pushed his tongue up against them. “That is... until Lucy walks in,” he whispered as if they conspired. “I imagine then we’d both move in quite the hurry, wouldn’t we?”

Wyatt thrashed and tried to throw the man, but Flynn was not going anywhere. He was heavy. He had a sturdy footing on the floor and a good grip on Wyatt’s chair. They barely rocked.

“What do you want me to say, man?” Wyatt questioned. He gave up his fruitless rebellion. “I’m not... gay. I don’t want you or- or any of this. I wish I was... anywhere other than the hands down most twisted widower support group on the planet.” Flynn snickered. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s not,” he agreed, and he moved his hips one quick time because he could, because he wanted to remind Wyatt of what they were doing and that what they were doing felt good. “But you are forgetting,” he said, “it’s not about... any of that. Venerate the body; abandon the mind; and know, Wyatt, that when you do tell me how,” he tightened around Wyatt’s cock and they both moaned, “pleasurable this feels, that I won’t hold it against you. I won’t mock you, no. It wouldn’t count. You’d claim coercion. And torture is, after all, the least reliable way to procure information. We know that, Wyatt. We know that. I want... your... sincerity.” He did. He would not accept a lie that it was good or a lie that it was bad. “Aren’t you the man with no secrets? Aren’t we both?” Flynn pointed at himself. “I will admit now how satisfied I am to have picked you of all people. Why, you’re honorable. You’re handsome. You’re in shape— _hard_... in all the right _places_.” He punctuated the sentiment with another singular pump of his hips. “There, I went first,” he said, “and I will be nothing if not... complimentary throughout. Let go of your pride,” Flynn instructed him. “You might as well enjoy yourself because it’s happening either way. It’s already happening!” He cackled. “Do you understand?” Wyatt stalled several seconds before reluctantly nodding his head. “Very good. Now, does this feel pleasurable to you?”

“You know it does,” Wyatt murmured. His face was hot and embarrassed again. “Human physiology,” he justified.

“Say it out loud,” Flynn encouraged. His hands massaged the tension around Wyatt’s neck and tightly strained shoulders. “Say it,” he whispered.

“You...” Wyatt swallowed. When he spoke, it was very hushed. Flynn might not have identified the words at all if he were not anxiously awaiting them. “Yeah, you feel... It’s good.”

That was all Flynn wanted from him. “There’s my good little soldier boy, ah.” He ruffled Wyatt’s hair. “Let’s give you a reward.”

The reward was immediate. Flynn kept his hands on Wyatt’s bare shoulders instead of the chair. He anchored himself to him as leverage for his undulating hips. His knees bent or straightened to lower or raise his entire body. Wyatt moved in and out of him with no control over the affair. What he got— what he was given— was amazing. Flynn was hot even through the condom. The rim of his ass was constricting. Wyatt’s cock was squeezed and held with a pressure he welcomed. That ass was a sin and wasted on a man like Garcia Flynn.

“Don’t stop,” Wyatt ordered. He could not handle another disruption. He wanted to finish. He wanted to finish and never again think of how deeply he desired what he was receiving. He wanted to cum in Flynn’s ass and then lock everything away. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could begin lying to himself that it was not as good as he remembered. “Don’t stop again.”

“I won’t,” Flynn swore, and barring some further punishment from discourse, he would not. He wanted completion, but first he had to make his partner confess to wanting that same thing. It was a power play or it was a lie for himself. Flynn wanted to know Wyatt was pleasured. He wanted, perhaps, to imagine it was consensual. He wanted to pretend he was not the sort of man who abused power in such a despicable way. Wyatt gave him what he wanted: the truth. There was no taking it back. He admitted he was enjoying himself, and he was. It was good. It would have been great with anyone else. How could he not relish and embrace someone fucking him with such attention? He was not treated as a means to an end. Flynn gave him all the right stimulations, pressures, considerations. Maybe the advantage of sleeping with a man was he had been in Wyatt’s seat, pitching instead of catching. He knew what felt best. He knew how to tease just the right amount, how to raise up so far he almost pulled off entirely but instead kept Wyatt’s head gripped by that tight hole. He lowered back down in jerking thrusts, and if there was that internal pleasure point he claimed, he was getting it. Flynn moaned unashamedly. Wyatt did as well but kept it in his throat behind closed lips. Yes, he was enjoying himself. He simply did not want Flynn.

“How heavy is that wedding ring right about now?” he asked, saying it to be cruel. The curved silver dug into his right shoulder. He wondered if Flynn was as aware of it as he was.

“Not nearly so light as yours,” the man replied, coming back with harsher words that cut deeper.

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“Neither is mine any of yours.” Flynn’s fingers flexed around his shoulder. The pressure of the ring retreated. He moved his hand back behind himself. He was a tall man and the angle was horrible, but he somehow managed to cup and grasp Wyatt’s balls.

“God! Yes... yes.” Wyatt bit his tongue, then his lip. He kept his approvals to himself.

“Be as loud as you want,” Flynn permitted. “I sent my men downstairs.”

Wyatt knew he was supposed to take that information and act on it. He should subdue Flynn and avoid his goons while the man was still finding his pants. That was what he was supposed to do; however, he was preoccupied.

“What would you do if you had your hands free?” Flynn questioned. He sounded out of breath. He tried to hide it, but his words were broken up and clipped. Pronunciation was stressed, a masquerading energy. Wyatt experienced exertion on such a lower level. Flynn was doing all the work.

“Strangle you,” Wyatt answered, probably the truth.

Flynn took his hand from Wyatt’s balls and put it back on his shoulder. He sped up a little without the distraction. “What would you do?” he asked again. Flynn was not going to uncuff him, no matter what his answer was. It was a fake question looking for a fake response. How Wyatt answered had nothing to do with anything but the lustful rush of the moment. It was about getting off.

“Grab... Grab your hips,” Wyatt begrudgingly narrated. “I’d squ... I’d squeeze until you got the message: I set the pace, you bastard.” Flynn groaned in his throat, a quiet, contained sound. He obviously agreed with the proposal. “Shove you on the floor,” Wyatt continued, unable to stop himself. He wanted to change the story. He wanted the control. “I’d turn you over so I didn’t have to look at your goddamned face.” It sounded so much better, so much easier, to pretend and actually enjoy himself. “And then I’d... still probably wrap my hands around your throat.”

“Kill me?” It stank of necrophilic implications.

“Not just yet,” Wyatt dismissed. “I’m not... God! Mm... Hah. I’m not done with you.” He had more ideas in mind but difficulty getting them out.

“Don’t stop now, Wyatt,” Flynn urged. “You were doing well.”

“Yank... your stupid hair,” Wyatt imagined. “Get a handful of it in my- in my fingers and not let you move your head one damn inch unless I let it happen.” Wyatt would never say those threats to anyone else. He would never even fantasize them. Flynn inspired the creation of a darker side. “I’d make you kiss these floorboards.”

“And I let you do this?” Flynn challenged. He took offense from his portrayal’s docility and submission. Every physical altercation between them ended in a draw. They were too evenly matched for Wyatt to win so absolutely.

“Yeah,” he said, “you do because— Yeah, just like that. Do that again. Yes... Hmm... You do because you need this so bad, so very... very bad, don’t you?” Flynn smirked but did not answer. He did not have to. He was in charge. Wyatt did not and would not control his words.

The end was coming, for them both apparently. Flynn stole back one of his hands and finally put it on himself, pumping his own hard erection between them. It made his body move in erratic discoordination. The chair creaked, and Wyatt feared the decrepit old thing would buckle beneath their combined weight and exertion. How ironic it would be if he were freed in that way.

With his hands chained and legs immobile, Wyatt had no way of engaging Flynn physically, of doing anything other than letting it happen. He was so close though, and absence of any control was amplified. He wanted something. Flynn leaned in closer, right over him, right against him. Wyatt dipped his head and bit into the man’s shoulder. Flynn jerked but did not pull away. He seemed to enjoy it, the kinky son of a bitch. Wyatt bit down harder. His teeth scraped skin but did not break it. There would be a mark.

“I’m almost...” Flynn jerked his cock. His hand knocked against Wyatt’s stomach with each flick. “I’m almost there.”

Wyatt hummed concurrence against the salted skin in his mouth. He was so close, nearly there. If Flynn stopped again, Wyatt would surely break the chair and pin the man down as threatened.

“You first,” Flynn insisted. It sounded selfless at first and the easier choice after. If Wyatt was already taken care of, Flynn could enjoy his own orgasm without further obligation. Wyatt no longer cared about motive.

He came. He bit hard on Flynn’s shoulder and came hard into the condom inside of him. Wyatt felt the rush. He felt the bliss. He disassociated from any care or concern or identification of partner, and he savored oblivion.

When he came down seconds later, Flynn’s hand was still hitting against his stomach. Wyatt released his shoulder from his mouth. A string of spit followed them both. With his range of mobility restored, Flynn leaned closer against him. He wrapped his free arm over Wyatt’s shoulder and around the chair. He clawed at the wood until he grabbed Wyatt’s arm. He held on. He grunted. He came.

Flynn melted against him. His hand slowed then stopped. He exhaled into Wyatt’s ear. It was a shaking, halted breath, a mark of naked relief, of clear alleviation. It was equal to the death rattle, that mighty egress of the spiritual from the physical. Flynn became nothing but his body. There were no mental or emotional burdens. His mind was too distracted and too blissful for them. He was free the short time it lasted. Wyatt let him have his moment liberated from worry. He let the man experience it without interruption.

“Thank you,” Flynn expressed, as if Wyatt had given him something and not had it taken. Flynn leaned heavily against him with their bare chests touching and an uncomfortable layer of sweat between them. Fingers tenderly caressed the back of Wyatt’s head. They petted his hair. He was genuinely grateful to him. “Thank you, Wyatt.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. He did not revel in seeing his opponent so vulnerable. It unnerved him. It contributed to the many unpleasantries which rushed back in after the fog of lust cleared. “What do I say now? ‘You’re welcome’?”

“No.” Flynn shook his head. His forehead rubbed against Wyatt’s shoulder. “No, you’ve done enough.” His breaths were long and deep, and they blew warmly down Wyatt’s skin. Flynn panted out a few more of them before sitting back. “Blue,” he said, peering into Wyatt’s eyes, getting the view of them he had promised himself earlier. He pulled Wyatt’s shirt back over his shoulders. “The pink compliments them.” Flynn’s hands dragged down his chest, over the shirt. His eyes lowered. He was bewitched by a thought, and the so noticeable focus of his gaze indicated that the thought was to bend and break his own rule against kissing. But whatever fleeting fancy fed that notion did not overpower his decision against it. They were not intimate. They had sex neither of them wanted, and that was through. They moved on from there. They went back to where they were.

Wyatt clenched his hands. He rubbed his fingers together and felt nothing, nothing but his own skin rubbing back. In his consuming distraction, he had dropped his precious, excavated nail. He dropped it. His only remaining chance was Lucy, and he expressly told her not to return. Even if she was trying to save him, there was no guarantee she would even find the document Flynn wanted. Wyatt squeezed his fingers one last time, defiantly hoping the nail was still there and slipped his notice. It was gone. He would die. He would die and not in combat, not saving someone— anyone. He would die tied to a chair. He whimpered. He whined at his loss and at his chances.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Flynn cooed in his ear, misinterpreting his distress. His voice was tender and understanding. “None of that now, sweetheart.” He sat back on Wyatt’s lap and stroked his face. Flynn’s hands were capable of strength, of violence, of murder. They were capable of compassion. “None of that.” Wyatt closed his eyes and let the man touch over his cheeks then jaw and neck. He was everywhere. It was gentle. One fingertip outlined Wyatt’s lips in lieu of the kiss he would not give. Flynn dragged his thumb along the bottom lip, pulling it down before letting it slip back into place, over and over. It was intimate— or their version of the sentiment.

After sex, to his great fault, Wyatt had always been, well, ‘clingy’ or ‘affectionate’ were somewhat demeaning terms, but yes. He was clingy and affectionate after the act. However, aside from a few flings (whom he still managed to have some feelings for), everyone until that point— every woman— had been someone he cared about. And then there was Garcia Flynn. Wyatt opened his eyes and glared at him. Flynn took his hands away.

“All better, huh? It’s over now. All over. And I think,” he said, “perhaps we both needed that, yes?”

Wyatt did. He absolutely did. He would never admit to it. So he countered with sarcasm. “I think, uh,” he cleared his throat, “I think you needed it a lot more than me, if I’m being honest.”

Flynn laughed. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Maybe, yes.”

They were both spent. They were both relieved, momentarily, of their stresses. Wyatt was exhausted. He was sated. His arms and legs were boneless.

“There, you see,” Flynn remarked. “You are more flexible already.”

“Fuck you,” Wyatt muttered. Flynn gave him an odd, bemused look, to which he quickly responded with, “You know what I mean. Not... physically.”

“Not so soon after at any rate.” Flynn smirked.

“I’m so glad this is funny to you.”

“It was good for me,” Flynn said, maintaining his position on honesty.

Wyatt was intimidated by the shameless confession. He avoided response or agreement. “You know, you’re a lot heavier than you look,” he said instead, and Flynn looked heavy enough to begin with, a tall, well built man like him. He was a damn rock.

“My apologies.”

He removed himself with a grunt. When he stood, Wyatt’s limp cock slipped down against his thigh. Flynn left him there with his shirt opened and his pants around his knees. He walked with an uncoordinated step and chuckled at his momentary gracelessness as he grabbed his clothes, stepped into the adjoining bathroom, and shut the door. Water was soon heard running into the sink.

Flynn was gone a few minutes— four by Wyatt’s estimation— and when he came back, he was immaculate once more, not one hair or one clothing fold out of place. He had a wet washcloth in his hand.

“Your turn,” he said. His shoes clattered loudly on the wooden floor, pronouncing his nice dress and making the afterimage of him barefoot and naked difficult to remember or envision.

Flynn knelt in front of him. He removed the condom and was mindful of lingering sensitivity. He tied it up and tossed it into a tin trash can behind them. The box of unused ones and the lube were sent along with it. Flynn had no further need of them. He got what he wanted.

The cloth was cold on his chest and Flynn made a brief comment about the hotel’s lack of hot water. Given that he had more to clean and in a more personal place, Wyatt could imagine his greater displeasure over the fact. The water quickly dried on his skin. Flynn removed the smeared sweat of them both and moved lower down, to wipe away the cum which had stuck. It should have been too demeaning an act for an enemy to perform. By all accounts, Flynn would have been justified leaving Wyatt as he was, pants down and everything. Being cleaned was much better. It was worse. It was undivided attention upon him which could not be ignored. They were both very aware of what he was doing, of the attention to detail Flynn took in handling his cock and making certain he washed away every bit. It was a new and unique humiliation. Wyatt could not watch.

“So,” he huffed, saying anything to distract from Flynn cleaning him off, “do I gotta call you Garcia now? How’s this work?”

Flynn chuckled. “No,” he said, “I think you and I both prefer it that you don’t.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

He finished, and Wyatt nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Flynn dropped the soiled rag and raised his hands up to begin buttoning Wyatt’s shirt, putting everything back in order, back as he found it. He started at the top and worked his way down. The exposed skin of Wyatt’s chest disappeared. Flynn tapped his naked thigh. “Up you go,” he said. “Come on.” Wyatt picked up his hips, and Flynn pulled his pants on the rest of the way. He tucked Wyatt’s cock into his underwear and zipped his pants. “Good as new.” Flynn patted his crotch and stood. “Our own little secret, yes?”

“Who the hell would I tell about this?” Wyatt scoffed. “ _Why_  would I tell them?”

Flynn smirked. “Soldiers are good with secrets,” he said. “I’ve always admired that really. I appreciate any quality I value in myself. We are open books, you and I... so long as the truth does not condemn us. Then we bury it away. We make our secrets. Sometimes they are necessary, after all. For instance,” he proposed, “you could return to the future, report what I’ve done, add it to my list of charges. It’s certainly no comparison to treason,” he chuckled, “but you could. You could tell your superior. But something tells me you’re not going to do that. Something tells me Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan has a secret to keep.”

“Secrets,” Wyatt muttered. He dropped his chin down to his chest and snickered. It was a hoarse, hissing sound. He was done pretending, even if Flynn was not. “Like the one you kept from Lucy?” He picked his head back up and looked at Flynn’s impressed expression. “She brings you the doc, she doesn’t bring you the doc, you and I both know I don’t leave this room.”

“You’ve tried to kill me,” Flynn justified, “and will try again in the future. I tend to take that personally.”

“Yeah well,” Wyatt sighed, “I give your pillowtalk an F.” Admittedly, it was an unorthodox conversation to follow sex. “Some people get flowers; me, hey, a bullet.” The comment made Flynn laugh.

“I like you,” he said. “You remind me of myself in a way, in a few... ways. That’s why it is a shame to kill you. I wish I didn’t have to. Don’t doubt my sincerity.”

“Your sincerity can go to Hell for all I care.”

“I kill you or you kill me,” Flynn told him. “Those are the stakes, Wyatt. Not mine, mind you, but the ones I’m forced to play by. Do not begrudge my taking the first strike. It would make you a hypocrite... or a sore loser.”

“It’s hard to be a, uh, graceful loser when you, what? You outnumber a guy, you sneak up on him, hit him with the taser/chloroform combo.” Flynn spoke like he won a fair fight. It was Wyatt’s prerogative to reemphasize the ways it did not qualify. “Can you seriously kill me after—”

“Yes.” Flynn was not entranced or transformed because they had sex. His conviction was the stuff of mythological heroes. Nothing would sway him from his quest. That made two of them. If the situation were reversed, if Flynn was the one tied up, Wyatt still had orders.

“Well,” he shrugged, pulling on his handcuffs, “guess that’s it then.”

Flynn looked at his watch. “An hour,” he informed. That was all the time Wyatt had left. Flynn left the room again, letting him count down his hour alone.

When Flynn returned, his face was hard and blank. The consequence of his ultimatum loomed unpleasantly but unavoidably. Flynn was going to kill him. It would not do to have Wyatt continue pursuing him. Like he said, one of them had to die first.

“That’s all the time we have, little soldier boy,” he lamented.

It was— until one of his minions announced, “Lucy called the payphone.”

And Wyatt was saved.

He was saved, but he had a secret, his very own secret to keep from the team. It was more severe than Lucy’s conversations with Flynn. It was more selfish and less coerced than Rufus spying for Rittenhouse.

Wyatt had a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My kinks include sex without kissing and the use of one (1) endearment. In this instance, the lone, post-coital “sweetheart.”
> 
> I think I maybe meant for this to be more hate sex. In the beginning. But I ended up here, and I don’t... entirely hate it. The hate sex comes later, when they keep running into each other during future missions. Definitely. They fight, one of them overpowers the other, supposed to kill but instead... hate sex. Ideally, they would tussle, Wyatt wins, pins Flynn to a wall with his arm against his throat, gun to his head. Flynn waits for death. Wyatt stands there, blanking. Flynn closes his eyes to make it easier for him. And then... Wyatt kisses him. Flynn doesn’t like it, but it’s happened now. The ban is lifted. They make out, have a hate sex repeat, only this time Wyatt’s in control. He puts his gun in Flynn’s mouth, then against the back of his head when he makes the man turn around like he wants. All that hot, hateful stuff. Etcetera, etcetera. When they finish, he gives Flynn a five minute head start in fleeing.
> 
> I was a little ways into writing this when I realized that the aggressor in most non-con situations isn’t typically the one bottoming. Hey, why not though? For this scenario definitely. I don’t know if it’s because of Wyatt’s position handcuffed to the chair or because of his obscenely spread legs the whole episode, but I never pictured it the other way. I still can’t actually. I like bottom Flynn. Deal with it. Deal with it or write your own. I dare you.
> 
> This isn't really my best work, but if you sort of enjoyed it, hit me up with comment. Please~


	2. Tied Up Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I wrote more. Haha. And it’s even longer than the first chapter.
> 
> I realized (commenting on the Watergate episode) there’s an hour missing when Wyatt isn’t tied to the chair. A goof, yes definitely, but when Wyatt escapes and is immediately subdued, Flynn says he has an hour left. When it comes back and Wyatt’s being handcuffed to the chair again, Flynn says his time is up. So what happens in that hour between Wyatt being apprehended and being handcuffed? Eh? It’s my own personal erased Nixon tape of mystery. What happened in that gap?
> 
> Okay, so this chapter picks up at the end of Space Race, before they return to the present. Flynn drives off from his mother’s house, and (being excessively motivated in this fic) Wyatt pursues closely. And go.

Wyatt entered the open door walking softly. His gun swept back and forth. The shiny black Cutlass with its busted windows was parked haphazardly in the driveway. He looked for Flynn. There was no sign of him in the nightmare of 1960s architecture. Wyatt’s gun pulled to the right as he stepped up to a corner. Flynn’s hand came down on his wrist, almost causing Wyatt to drop his gun. They fought over it, and Flynn forced him to discharge three of the revolver’s six shots into the ceiling. Wyatt kicked him and recovered control.

Flynn tried to flee again but did not clear a doorway before Wyatt shouted, “Freeze!” He did not stop, so a warning shot was fired. It zoomed by his ear, so close Flynn could hear the wind coming off it. He stopped. He raised his hands in the air.

Garcia Flynn was captured.

It was such a surreal concept that Wyatt was overwhelmed and flustered. His next step was difficult to plan. “Where’s the _Mothership_?” He peeked out the window, but there was nothing except an empty backyard.

“I saw you following me,” Flynn said, speaking it to the wall in front of him. He turned around where he stood— slowly, so as to demonstrate his nonviolence. “You’re a decent pursuit driver, Wyatt. Did you think I’d lead you to my center of operations?”

He hoped it more than anything. But of course apprehending Flynn would not come with all the nice bows and wrappings. “Hands on the back of your head. Interlock your fingers.” Flynn stood perfectly still and frustratingly defiant. “Do it!” He huffed a sigh and did as ordered. His hands moved in and he put them on the back of his head. Only then did Wyatt approach. He kept his gun and his eyes on Flynn. His other hand searched the man by feel. Wyatt reached into his jacket and removed the gun from its holster. He checked the safety and put it in the waist of his pants. “Any other weapons?”

Flynn was silent long enough for it to be annoying. When he spoke, cooperation was still severely lacking. “Well, if I say no, you won’t believe it, so why waste our time?” he said. It was true. “Do you intend to search me?”

“Turn around,” Wyatt commanded.

“What was that?”

“Turn around, you bastard.” Flynn was puzzled to receive orders instead of a bullet. He did as told, victim of suspicious leniency. Wyatt shoved him against the wall. He pulled Flynn’s arm down behind his back. “Garcia Flynn.” One handcuff clicked around his wrist. He fought the second one, but Wyatt chained him. Being undercover as an FBI agent had a few perks and toys. “You’re under arrest for treason, murder, and about a dozen other charges. Someone will read it off when we get home.”

“You are not a cop,” Flynn said, speaking it into the drywall. “You don’t make arrests. You’re a soldier, Wyatt, and soldiers shoot. They shoot whomever they have been ordered to shoot. I don’t believe you’re instructed to bring me back alive.”

Wyatt grabbed Flynn’s shoulder. He spun the man around and shoved him back up against the wall. “That’s when killing you was the easier option,” he said. “But I’ve caught you now, haven’t I? You’re coming back with us.”

“The gun, Wyatt,” he urged. “You shoot me or you let me go. If you take me alive, I won’t be sent prison. I’ll never see the inside of a cell. You’re handing me to Rittenhouse, to the men who murdered my family. Death by your hand is more palatable. You have good reason, after all. I deserve it... after what I did to you.” It was the first mention. The subject was broached. After it came, that day could no longer be ignored away.

“Shut up.”

Flynn came forward a few inches. Wyatt’s grip tightened on the gun, lest he try something, but all Flynn did was press his forehead up against the muzzle. “Do it,” he asked. “Do it. Do it. Look... I’ll close my eyes,” he did, “make it easier for you.” He stood there awaiting death, somehow the preferable option for a man who treasured survival so greatly. He was terrified of the alternative.

Wyatt pulled his hand back, dissevering contact. “No.” Mercy against death, if it truly was the greater good in Flynn’s situation, was not well received. He jerked forward and headbutted Wyatt with the skill of a man taught combat outside that with his hands. Wyatt recovered. He ignored the blood running down his nose and steadied his gun but did not shoot. Flynn kicked him, purposefully antagonizing a murderous reaction or attempting to secure freedom through a disadvantaged fight. Wyatt punched him in the head, but his left hand lacked the strength of the one holding his gun. Flynn kicked him again and began to run down a hallway. For a split second, Wyatt contemplated using his gun, putting the last two bullets in the man. He tackled him instead. He lunged and grabbed Flynn by the legs. They both fell on the floor. Flynn tried to kick him off, but Wyatt climbed up his body. He rolled the man over and pinned his handcuffed arms beneath his own weight. Flynn struggled but had no leverage to put himself on top. Wyatt held him down by his shoulders. He leaned over the man. He straddled his abdomen. They each panted from the exertion of the fight. Wyatt watched Flynn’s open mouth swallowing air. His chest heaved. His stomach raised Wyatt and lowered him. Neither man spoke. It was different than last time. Wyatt was in control. Flynn was handcuffed beneath him and his temperament, his decision. Wyatt was in control.

He removed his hands from Flynn’s shoulders. They went inward. His thumb and finger bestrode Flynn’s throat, one hand above the other. He squeezed. Flynn choked. He gasped on the air he could not claim. It was a better death than a gunshot. It was not absolute. Wyatt had time to change his mind.

He watched Flynn, a murderer, die.

He changed his mind.

Flynn did not fight the threat of death. Wyatt changed his mind. He withdrew the pressure of his hands, and Flynn could breathe again. He coughed. He gasped. Wyatt wanted to follow orders. He wanted to kill the man. He did not want to do it yet.

He moved his hands and put open palms against the floor. His elbows bent. He went down. He loomed above Flynn. Their breath was catching up to them, but the man was still inhaling through those thin lips between coarse, grown stubble. Wyatt watched him breathe. Neither of them knew what came next, not until it happened.

Flynn thrashed beneath him. Wyatt pressed down harder, continuing the kiss he stole. His lip was bit and he pulled away. He touched the mark, but there was no blood. It simply pinched.

“You bastard,” Flynn spat. On a reckless impulse, Wyatt erased the kiss of his wife. Flynn tried to sit up but could not. His arms were bound behind him. Wyatt was heavy on his stomach. It was almost pitiful to watch him try. “Bastard.”

Wyatt pushed him back down. He did it. He kissed him. And while Flynn hated it, Wyatt had not. He was too confused to think of such strong, devouring emotions. He kissed him again because he could, because he was in control. Flynn owed him submission.

It was a rush. Flynn fought him, futilely, but gave up after a few seconds. The damage was done. There was a new path to follow. There was a curiosity to whet. Flynn let Wyatt continue because he wanted to see where it led them. He wanted to watch the unfolding of a plan Wyatt had not yet made. Flynn kissed him back. His head raised off the floor what little he could and he pushed against Wyatt. It was a horrible, hard, awkward kiss. It fumbled and disagreed. Their noses crashed into each other’s— with Wyatt’s still hurting from the headbutt. Their teeth shoved against the insides of their mouths. Their tongues did not know what to do. They were not compatible. It did not stop them. Somehow, the controversy of the situation, the illegality, overcame everything else and exhilarated. It was further proof of mania. Flynn was insane, and Wyatt was temporarily. It was a rash excuse with which to act irrationally. It was a utilized excuse.

Wyatt put his hands in Flynn’s hair and pulled. With a harsh hand, he pulled the man up. He came off his stomach and let Flynn sit. Wyatt brought him up by yanking his hair. Flynn did not complain. He did not stop kissing and broke apart only briefly. Wyatt sat in front of Flynn with his split legs on top of his and curved around his waist. He kept pulling on Flynn’s hair because he could. It was violent.

“What now?” Flynn was held in place and could not pull away to speak, so he said it against Wyatt’s lips. “What do you... plan on doing... with me?” After a fight, asphyxiation, and a series of frenzied kisses, Flynn could barely talk for lack of air.

Wyatt had no idea, but he could bluff. He took his legs from around Flynn. He stood. He recovered his gun from the floor and aimed. “Get up.”

“I’m not surrendering.”

“Did I say we’re going to the _Lifeboat_?” Wyatt replied. “No.” He flicked his revolver at him. “Now get up.”

Flynn was intrigued and did comply. It was an almost impossible task with his arms behind him like they were. He managed to get on his knees. Wyatt grabbed under his arm and helped pull him up the rest of the way. When Flynn was on his feet, Wyatt shoved him towards the back of the house. Flynn walked.

Wyatt looked through hallway doors as they passed them. “In there,” he said about one.

Flynn walked into the bedroom and through to the attached bathroom as instructed. It was not an exceptionally tight space, but two grown men fit poorly in it. Wyatt forced Flynn to keep going until he nearly walked into the far wall. He kept an eye on the man’s back as he leaned over the sink to look through the house’s toiletries. Drawers had nothing much. Wyatt opened the tacky medicine cabinet on the wall. He kept the gun in his hand, steady and pressed into Flynn’s hair so that he would not forget the threat. With his free hand, he rummaged through the cabinet.

“What are you doing?” Flynn asked.

“Shut up.” Wyatt barely knew himself. He knocked several items off their shelves and into the sink or floor. The fault of his clumsiness was nerves or haste. All Wyatt knew was his actions were erratic and poorly planned, more poorly executed. He grabbed a small plastic tub of Vaseline and put it in front of Flynn’s face. “This,” he questioned, “will this do it?”

Flynn studied the product. He shrugged. “Define ‘it,’” he said. He had an idea, certainly, but he was going to make Wyatt spell it out.

“You know what.”

“What?” he continued, playing dumb and smirking through it.

“What we...” Flynn turned around so he could watch the utter shame on Wyatt’s face. “Last time... What we... What you did to me.”

“Sex,” Flynn said out loud. He shared no reservations against the word, only delight towards Wyatt’s inability to address it. “I imagine you want it the same way, with yourself on top. You’ll force me, is that it? Rape... me?” He enjoyed phrasing it in such a way, purposefully exploiting the dark and reprehensible nature of Wyatt’s intention. “Is this us now?” Flynn questioned. “Is this what we do whenever one of us has the upper hand? Hm?”

“Shut up.” Under no circumstance would Wyatt answer or even contemplate that question.

“You’re a good man,” Flynn asserted. “I wonder if you can pull this off? Will that burdensome conscience of yours really let you do it? You have me at your mercy, Wyatt. I do whatever you say, and this is how you... abuse it?” Flynn stressed exactly how deplorable it sounded— how deplorable it was. He held Wyatt to a higher standard for his own sake. He made Wyatt sound more virtuous. It did not work for him.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Yeah. Because— and you let me know if I’m wrong— you’re still wanting this, aren’t you?” Flynn smirked but said nothing. “Huh?” He was quiet. Wyatt brought his gun closer, right up against Flynn’s temple. The muzzle pressed into his flesh. The barrel was caressed by his loose hanging hair. “Tell me.” Flynn knew he wanted something comparable to consent, so he would not say out loud what they both knew. Wyatt wanted to hit him— with his fist or with the grip of his weapon. Instead, he lowered the gun, trailing it down Flynn’s face and never breaking skin contact. It went across his forehead, between his green eyes, alongside his pointed nose, and up against his thin lips. Wyatt pushed the barrel into his mouth, an intimidation. Flynn let it happen, mocking Wyatt’s threat by draining any fear from the situation. His lips wrapped around the gun. His teeth rested on it. The two of them stared into each other in stalemate, one waiting for the other to bend. Spit dripped out beside the gun and down the corner of Flynn’s lip. With his hands chained and his mouth occupied, he could not stop it. Wyatt watched the trail run down his chin and the act of what he was forcing became sexual against its intent. Flynn observed the focus of his eyes, and, simply to perturb him deeper, willingly swallowed the gun another inch. The short barrel knocked up against the back of his tongue. The metal sight scraped the roof of his mouth. His lips kissed at the cylinder. Wyatt’s mindset perverted the exhibition further. It was obscene. Flynn spoke around the gun. His words were unintelligible, but the string of them vibrated the metal in Wyatt’s hand. He withdrew his weapon so Flynn could talk, hoping it was what he wanted to hear.

Flynn’s tongue slithered out to lick the drool from his chin as far down as he could reach. “You didn’t make it easy for me,” he said. “You made me take from you every step of the way. Why should I make your conscience lighter, Wyatt? Why are you so lucky?”

“You wanted it before,” Wyatt defended, rationalizing that Flynn’s past enthusiasm carried over into the present.

“On my terms,” he said. “Just as you want it now when the conditions are yours.” He would not grant Wyatt peace of mind. There would be no explicit alleviation to his conscience. Flynn forced him to decide: if Wyatt wanted, he would have to take. Flynn was gambling on him being too noble to carry through. “You’re not... wicked enough,” he accused.

The voice in Wyatt’s ears was his own but unfamiliar. It was gruff, like the first speech of the morning, that after sleep— quiet and cracked and not wanting to be used. “Walk.” Flynn obeyed without a thought of rebellion. He moved past Wyatt and into the bedroom. “Stop.” He stood in the middle of the room, shoes tapping on the hardwood floor. “Kneel,” Wyatt ordered. “Get on your knees.” Flynn did so with difficulty. He almost fell to the ground without his arms for balance.

“It will work,” he said, answering Wyatt’s earlier question. He looked at the canister of gel in his hand. “It’s not ideal, obviously. Nothing beats the real thing.” He nodded his head in leisure as he thought. “But it will work. Better than nothing.”

“Uh, good,” Wyatt replied. He did not know his next step if Vaseline were a poor method. Even possessing what he needed, Wyatt’s resolve was suspect. He did not know why he was forcing Flynn as he was forced. Was it all just payback? Was it about sex— sex with Flynn? His hesitance was noticed.

“Are you not... worried about the good civilians who live in this house coming back,” Flynn questioned, “catching us in the act? What an exhibitionist you are.”

“Newspapers stacked in the driveway,” Wyatt said. Flynn frowned. “Somebody’s taking a little summer vacation. That why you chose the place? Huh? That why you tried to hide here, subdue me here?”

“Not just a pretty face,” Flynn commended. Wyatt balked on the compliment. “What,” he said, “you didn’t think I’d stop... admitting you’re attractive just because you’re taking advantage of me, did you? Though I suppose the real question is if you’re ready to admit you’re attracted to me.”

“No.” It was a lie. Wyatt knew Flynn was an attractive man, but he did not want to confess it and give him the satisfaction.

“Then what are we doing here?” Flynn asked him, addressing obscurity. “There are two reasons to do what you’re doing: power or sex. Do you want sex, Wyatt? Or,” he was equally intrigued by both options, “are you looking to dominate me in return… after what I did to you?” He rolled his head to the side, showing off the long line of a strong neck. “Take your power back, Wyatt. You have to take it.” Flynn was daring him to follow through. He wanted to see what, if anything, would happen. “Take it.”

Wyatt laid his gun— and Flynn’s— on the dresser. He pulled loose his tie and tossed it on top of them. His jacket followed. “Frustrating son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Flynn welcomed him like a drunk welcomed a fight. He looked prepared for one, squaring his shoulders and raising up high as Wyatt approached. Why disappoint him? Wyatt kept a loose fist but held back no strength when it beat upon Flynn’s cheek. The man fell back but recovered before collapsing. He pulled himself up. He looked at Wyatt with a red cheek and a devious grin.

“I owed you that.”

“You did,” Flynn agreed. He accepted his punishment.

Wyatt grabbed the man around the jaw and chin. He held him. Flynn could not move if he wanted. He did not want. Wyatt kissed him again. The angle was uncomfortable for them both. Flynn’s head was tilted so far back and up. Wyatt was bent down over him. They kissed. Flynn participated. He encouraged. He opened his mouth. Wyatt opened his. He put his other hand on Flynn’s face, one on either side. Wyatt could not lose himself in the moment. He could not say all was well, all was normal. Kissing Flynn was too different. His jawbone was hard and irregular in his fingers. Stubble brushed against them. It grated on his upper lip. Flynn’s nose was too long and distracting. They continued bumping into each other, pushing unpleasantly. Some things were the same, familiar. Flynn’s mouth was warm and wet. His tongue was like any other person’s. His enthusiasm was mirrored. It all felt requited, wanted. Wyatt was going to make Flynn do something he wanted. He told himself that. He assured himself that. And his claim did not strip power and domination; it only created a clearer conscience.

Wyatt pulled back gradually. Flynn followed, nipping and licking at his lips until he could no longer reach.

“On the floor,” Wyatt ordered, feeling good to be in charge. “Lean forward, face on the floor.” He wanted to see that: Flynn’s head pushed against the wood by his own bodyweight, hands cuffed behind his back, knees spread.

“There’s a bed just over there,” Flynn indicated, bringing it up as if it escaped Wyatt’s notice.

“We already put bullet holes in these people’s wall and ceiling,” he said. “We’re not messing up the bed.”

“It would be more comfortable,” he tempted.

“Down.”

Flynn grinned. He scooted his knees apart, sliding them against the wood. “Do you know… why I’m complying with you, Wyatt?” he posed. No guess came, so he answered himself. “Because I... _actually_  believe you’ll kill me. You’re looking for a reason. You want me to act up so it’s justified. You’ll shoot me even with the handcuffs. You’ll remove them afterward so anyone who sees will think it was a fair fight.”

“You want me to kill you,” Wyatt reminded.

“I don’t _want_  it!” he shouted. “I have too much to do, too much. I won’t rest until I have brought my family back or avenged them. I don’t... want to die, Wyatt, not even because of you. I prefer it. I do. Anything besides being gift-wrapped to Rittenhouse. But I will take you as you are now, struggling against reason, subduing it. I’ll do what you say. I want to know how this ends for me.”

“In an eight by ten cell,” Wyatt stated.

“We’ll see.”

“Down.”

“Yes, sir,” Flynn stated, sarcastically obedient. “Anything for you. Anything but a march into that outdated time machine of yours. I’ll run first.”

“Then I’ll shoot you,” Wyatt swore.

“I’m counting on it.”

Flynn went down with difficulty. He put as much weight as he could on his knees and gradually leaned forward until his cheek struck the floor. His back was a long slope, descending from his raised ass, beneath his restrained arms, down to his bent neck. Wyatt hated how good it looked, seeing his enemy in that position, seeing a great, strong man like Flynn helpless, defenseless. He swallowed and he hesitated, knowing there was nothing but progress.

“Take your time,” Flynn goaded. He did not look comfortable with so much weight pushing on his neck and head. “I should be all right while you make up your mind.” He still doubted Wyatt would carry through. Proving him wrong was the only incentive that mattered.

Wyatt knelt down beside the man. He grabbed Flynn’s jacket around the shoulders and pulled it off, down his arms, bunching it around his chained wrists. The shirt underneath only had a few buttons around the collar. Wyatt popped those open. He pulled the shirt up over Flynn’s chest and face with the intent of letting it join his jacket. He stopped. With Flynn’s head completely lost in his own shirt, Wyatt stopped, affectively hiding the man from sight. There were no overwhelming features for identification, only his body. Was that not preferable? If he pretended, Wyatt could believe it was not Flynn— until he spoke.

“You know... sensory deprivation is considered torture in certain situations,” he remarked, “but a fetish where sex is concerned. What an important detail context is, hm? I wonder which this qualifies as, torture or fetish.”

“You can still see.”

“I see a red shirt.”

“And I can’t see you,” Wyatt said. “That’s all that matters. You want your context? There it is.”

“Cover my face all you want,” Flynn mocked, “I’m still no woman, Wyatt. You’ll run out of shirts before you pull that one off.”

“Shut up.” Wyatt had no better comeback at the moment. Flynn was a man, a very masculine man.

Wyatt left his side and crawled back behind him. The pants Flynn wore were tightly stretched across his ass. Wyatt moved between the kneeling legs that parted wider for him. Every time Flynn repositioned, he shifted weight from his knees onto his head.

“If I had the use of my hands,” he said, “I could prop myself up better.” It was hypocritical of him to ask for the liberty he once denied.

“No.”

“Perhaps chained in the front at least.”

“No.” Uncuffing one hand, for however brief a time, was dangerous. Flynn was a highly trained agent. So he laid half in the floor, his upper body supported by nothing but his head, forced over to a horrible angle beneath the shirt. Wyatt’s breath was loud and thunderous in his ears. His chest swelled greatly with air and sunk when it contracted. He swallowed. It was his point of no return.

His hands, surprisingly steady, reached around to Flynn’s belt and unbuckled it while his front rubbed against the man’s backside. The backs of his hands brushed incidentally against still clothed thighs. Wyatt unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Flynn did not fight. Anticipation or acknowledged futility kept him. Wyatt began bringing the man’s pants and boxers down over his ass. And Flynn knelt there. Thumbs and fingers dragged the clothing off his thighs down to his knees. Stopping there worked before, with Wyatt, but Flynn needed to spread his legs wide enough for him to fit between. “Can you...” It was a hard sentence to finish. Flynn took mercy and did not make him. He lifted one knee off the floor, then the other. His face pressed harder into the wood. Wyatt pulled his pants down one leg at a time. He took them off with Flynn’s shoes.

“Don’t subject me to socks alone,” the man requested. He wiggled his toes. Wyatt took those off as well. It was, after all, a very unappealing look, threatening to counteract the allure of Flynn’s taut legs and ass in front of him.

“I’m not gay.” Wyatt felt a smothering obligation to make that clear once more. He could breathe again when he said it.

“Neither am I,” Flynn repeated as well.

Wyatt was not gay, and it was wrong— it was confusing— to look at Flynn’s bare body and want. The man was too tall and too hairy. He was too strong and too hard. His body was bone, and muscle, and angles, not curves and soft skin. Wyatt’s hand hesitated against Flynn’s hip, but he touched. He touched the body he had only ever looked at. It was as hard as it looked. His thumb rubbed and pressed into the muscle of his ass. He was different. Everything about him was different from a woman. But Flynn was still a person. He was. And Wyatt knew from experience that, despite the demented brain coming with the package, sex with Flynn was good, and it felt natural in a mindless way that begged for leave from reason. Wyatt wanted to fuck him. Cessation remained an option but was no longer treated as one. This was happening.

“Uh, there weren’t...” Wyatt felt mortified drawing attention to the fact that, “There weren’t any condoms... in the cabinet.”

“Not a very utilized technology in this era,” Flynn reminded him. “Could I ask that you maybe pull out... at the end?”

Anything else was a mess, and Wyatt understood why Flynn wanted to prevent it for himself. “I can do that,” he said.

With a deep breath for courage, Wyatt put his other hand on Flynn and moved further in. He pulled the man’s ass apart and saw his tight hole. He wanted that sensation Flynn had subjected him to. He wanted to relive the memory that could not possibly be as pleasurable as recalled. He would do it again to finish convincing himself of that fact. Yes, for his own peace of mind, there was no going back.

Wyatt knew the overall mechanics of anal sex. What blanks he had before, Flynn filled in last time. Taking charge, however, doing everything, he remained unprepared for that. “Do I, uh...” He cleared his throat. “Last time you had to... You, with your fingers. You still need that?”

“Probably,” Flynn said. He rolled his head off his cheek and put the weight on his forehead so he could speak better. “But you can refrain. I’ll give you a pass.”

“Do you need it?” he pressed. The man was a royal bastard, but Wyatt was not going to hurt him, not like that.

“No.” Flynn was a liar or a martyr. “You don’t want to,” he said. “I don’t want you to. Go ahead and skip it. Skip it. I’ll be all right.” He chuckled. “You’re not that big.”

Wyatt tried not to growl at the low hanging insult. He slapped Flynn’s naked ass, and the man huffed a laugh of amusement. “Had enough trouble with it last time,” he leaned over to say in Flynn’s ear. Wyatt kissed his shoulder through the fabric. Then he straightened back up. He undid his belt and pants and let them drop down his thighs. The Vaseline was a horrible and sticky mush on his fingers. It quickly warmed.

“Are you hard for me this time?” Flynn asked. He could not see. “Do I need my hands back to get you... excited?”

“I’m fine,” Wyatt muttered. He was hard. The rush, or the memory, or the pleasure of sheer dominating power did something for him. He was ready, more than ready. His hand alone was overwhelming when he rubbed the Vaseline on. He jerked his cock, coating it completely, vigorously, up and down. He thumbed the tip and put most there. “You just let me know,” he said, trying to be considerate, “all right? Tell me if it’s... too much.”

“Slow, yes?” Flynn requested.

“Slow,” Wyatt agreed.

That was how he went. He parted Flynn’s ass with one hand and the man shuddered with expectation. His breath was loud. Wyatt held his cock. He rubbed the head over Flynn’s hole, up and down, over and again, teasing and forewarning. His hand moved further down on himself, out of the way, when he began pushing in. Flynn groaned. His cuffed hands tightened into fists. He did not complain or call for an end. “Keep going,” he said instead. Wyatt did as asked. “That’s it... That’s... it.” Flynn panted against the floor. “Not bad at all,” he told Wyatt, alleviating any concerns. “Perhaps next time... we’ll finally switch.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Wyatt stated, though it was like forecasting tomorrow’s weather. He knew when he spoke that it was a thing he would have to wait and see about. Nothing was predictable anymore. “God,” he moaned. Flynn was so tight. He was so hot— hotter without a condom. It was good. It was, unfortunately, better than remembered. “God, I hate... I hate you so much, you bastard.”

“Yes.” It was confirmation of having heard or a mutual agreement over the fact. “Show me how much, Wyatt. Ah! Hmm... Show me. That’s it... That’s it, soldier boy.” Wyatt got it all into him. “Don’t move,” Flynn asked. “Just a minute. Just a minute.” Wyatt let him adjust. Flynn pushed his body back, bringing his knees down closer to his stomach. It changed the curve of his body. It made penetration easier. “There, yes. You can move now.”

Wyatt pulled out an inch. He gave it back. He worked in increasingly longer thrusts, building up length, force, speed. The pace he kept was languid and unhurried. For the beginning, at least, he wanted to make it last. Flynn made a noise almost every time he entered, so he was surely enjoying himself as well.

“God, you feel good,” Wyatt said with a grunt. He remembered Flynn’s promise from last time to not ridicule or judge words spoken in pleasure. He indulged in the freedom. “So tight. If fate... If fate is real, it’s got... one sick sense of humor giving an ass like this to a man like you.” Wyatt leaned away, dragging himself out of Flynn and watching the lewd pull. He moved back inside with shallow pumps, staring at Flynn’s rim push in on itself and swallow him up.

“Angle it... down... a little when you enter,” Flynn asked. “Come on.” He moved his hips as an enticement, trying to make pleasure win Wyatt’s cooperation. It should not have worked. It did not work. Coercion did not dictate Wyatt’s actions, not this time. But he was considerate as a lover. He always tried to be anyway. He could not take and take without giving. Not even Garcia Flynn was the exception to that rule. He found the unclear mark after a few thrusts. “Ah!” the man gasped, genuinely surprised Wyatt did as requested. “Right there, yes. Yes.” Years of experience with women and Wyatt knew about the G-spot. He supposed Flynn, or all men rather, had their own version of that.

Wyatt picked up his pace. He held onto Flynn’s hip and drew out long thrusts so he could try and stimulate the man on every round. He made certain to lose no momentum with his attentions and moved his hips with an urgent roll, fucking the length of himself into that squeezing heat at a pace that usually came near the erratic end. Wyatt was not through though. He wanted to make his insanity last because he was never having sex with the man again.

“Harder,” Flynn demanded. Wyatt did not fight him on it. If he wanted to carry a soreness with him when they were finished, that was his business. Wyatt snapped his hips harder, faster, deeper. Flynn moaned. “Yes,” he said, “yes, all right. Like that, Wyatt. More.” He was insatiable.

Flesh slapped into flesh, beating out a steady, hard rhythm. Flynn made noises to compare and contribute to the obscene sound. Wyatt added his own grunting approvals. They carried on for several minutes in that way, taking only pleasure. Wires crossed after so many years of normal sex with women. Wyatt slipped into the routine of heaving compliments and names between noises. “Mm,” he moaned, “god, you are so damn tight, so hot. You feel so good. Mm... Flynn.” He had complete control of the man, and it was addicting. His fingers clutched Flynn’s hips, holding him immobile in a grip that could not be disobeyed. Flynn had no leverage. Wyatt looked at him pushed down against the floor, smothered from a proper breath by the tight material around his face. Taking pity at last, no longer pretending his partner’s misidentification, Wyatt reached forward and pulled Flynn’s shirt down his face, back around his neck. He could breathe better.

“Thank you,” he said. The corner of his lips caught and rubbed on the floor when he spoke. His cheeks were red. His hair was a mess, thrown in every direction or sticking to his forehead.

Wyatt said nothing in return. He was absorbed into the irrefutable: he was fucking Garcia Flynn, America’s most wanted fugitive. And now he could see the man’s sloppy face. It should have been a bigger turn-off than it was. Instead, Wyatt felt a rush like that in every instance of adolescent sex he had to sneak around to have, like every time he and Jessica barely hid and eagerly screwed in public places they should not, getting off on the risk of being caught. Knowing he was, by his choice, committing such a despicable act with such a despicable person made Wyatt feel invigorated and naughty, a criminal in his own right. It was seductive. Wyatt leaned far forward and grabbed Flynn’s hair. His fingers tangled through its short length. They held on. They twisted his head further back on his neck, putting out a good view of his face.

He came.

Wyatt folded over Flynn’s back and moved in abortive, shallow thrusts until he quit, until he was done, until he came inside his enemy, his mission. Wyatt’s darkest secret was he felt no regret— except one.

Belatedly, he remembered he was not supposed to cum inside, but Flynn was not complaining so maybe he was unbothered by it. But then again, he was probably too distracted to think about what happened.

“Shit,” Wyatt muttered when he realized Flynn had no way of getting himself off, not with his hands behind his back. It was almost cruel to leave him that way, and if the roles were reversed again, Wyatt knew he himself would be most irate. That did not change the fact he did not want to jerk Flynn off to completion. He absolutely did not want to touch another man in that way. But fair was fair, and Wyatt had already taken what he wanted. “Just...” He groaned. He panted. “Let’s make it quick, all right?”

“On your mark,” came the reply, more than eager to begin and end. “ _Don’t_... pull out,” Flynn exclaimed when he began to do just that. Wyatt supposed he wanted the extra stimulation. He kept his soft, sensitive cock inside the man.

Wyatt pulled himself off Flynn’s back, almost wanting to continue laying there after his fatiguing orgasm. But putting more weight on the man was harsh. Wyatt kneeled behind him, cock still inside. His hand hesitated when he reached around to grab him. His fingers touched then wrapped around Flynn, fitting him against his palm. It was similar to masturbating but far too different to be natural. There was a dick in Wyatt’s hand, hard and wanting, but he could not feel it like he did his own. The only sensation was in his hand. He pulled it down to the end. Flynn sighed, and the masculine sound discomforted Wyatt more. He pulled his hand back up to the base, and the rub of skin on dry skin was unpleasant. He stopped just long enough to put some of the Vaseline on his fingertips. The pulls became more fluid and less snagging. Flynn enjoyed it more. Wyatt felt obligated to ask if he had any requests, but he managed to keep himself from surrendering to the verbal question. Instead, he went through the motions he usually performed on himself. He had a feeling Flynn was close enough that anything would do.

“That’s good,” the man panted, either guessing at his doubts or generally proclaiming his approval. “Just like that, Wyatt. Keep your hand... exactly... like that.”

“Don’t talk while I do this,” Wyatt asked.

He beat out a good pace, giving one of his better handjobs. Flynn lauded it, even if he inserted his orders of, “faster,” and, “tighter.” Wyatt held the man’s balls in his other hand, giving them a pulsing squeeze. He rubbed his palm against them. Flynn groaned low and long. The cock in Wyatt’s hand twitched. He came. Flynn came in Wyatt’s hand and was supported through it with slowing jerks that brought him down. His face was relaxed. His eyes were closed. Wyatt knew he was savoring the weightlessness and serenity of his orgasm. He took his hands off Flynn. He pulled out of his ass and the man grunted.

Now came the hardest part: what to do with him. What could Wyatt possibly do with the fugitive handcuffed in front of him, head down in a small puddle of leaking spit, ass pushed up displaying his red, irritated hole, body lifted off the floor just enough to not smear into the mess of his own ejaculate? What could be done with a man like that? Flynn was so disarmed, so fucked out, it was hard to believe he was dangerous.

Wyatt grabbed him around the arms. He pulled Flynn’s face off the floor and supported him as he brought his legs around to sit. He was a mess, half-naked with a wet splotch on his shirt he had panted against and drooled into. It moved with his chest as he continued catching his breath. Wyatt pushed the hair off Flynn’s forehead and back into place. Individual strands defied him and fell down. It was, as Wyatt could confess only to himself, sexy. He kissed Flynn. He knelt down in front of the man, down between his legs, and kissed him. His hands moved around Flynn’s face and up into his hair. He yanked and pulled. Flynn liked it. He shoved his lips and his nose harder into Wyatt’s. To the circumstance of intimacy after sex Wyatt was a pathetic victim. He wanted it, maybe needed it. So he kissed Garcia Flynn until his body’s desires retreated and his mind became clearer. He pulled away. Flynn wanted to continue, to stall whatever judgment Wyatt had in mind. He was left sitting in the floor.

Wyatt stood. He buttoned and zipped his pants and buckled his belt on top. He walked to the bedroom’s dresser and picked up his jacket to put on. His tie was stuffed into the pocket. He still needed a good many deep breaths before he went tying something around his neck. Wyatt put Flynn’s gun in the waist of his pants, against the small of his back. His revolver was in his hand. The two unspent bullets were heavy and seductive. The handcuff key in his pocket was small in comparison, but Wyatt felt every curve and angle of its modest existence.

Flynn sat waiting, perhaps plotting. As resourceful as he was though, there was nothing he could do in his predicament. He could not act fast enough or well enough to overpower or even escape Wyatt’s orders, if they so came.

Wyatt approached, gun in hand. He stood behind Flynn. The muzzle of his gun combed through the hair on the back of his head. Flynn lowered his chin down to his chest, waiting for the clap and the pain and the end. Wyatt knelt down.

The handcuffs clattered on the wood floor. Wyatt recovered them and put them in his pocket. He stood.

“Put your...” He could barely speak against his own stupidity. “Put your pants on and get the hell out of here.” Flynn opened his mouth with any combination of words and questions. “Don’t!” Wyatt did not want to discuss it.

“Why?” What an obstinate son of a bitch.

“I’m not taking you back,” Wyatt said with a sigh. “Rittenhouse is real.” The Nixon tape and Rufus confirmed that. “You’re actually scared of them— of being sent to them. And whether or not they killed your family... maybe they don’t need you too.”

“You have a mission,” Flynn reminded.

“I’m not gonna shoot you after...” He could not say ’sex.’

“This will come back to haunt you,” Flynn cautioned, speaking over his shoulder. He would make Wyatt regret leniency, and he would not apologize for the inevitable wrongdoing later. “Will you still do it?”

Wyatt kicked him in the back, a little nudge. “I said get up... and put your pants on.”

Flynn did not obey immediately. He dawdled within his pardon. He brought his arms around in front of him and hissed a whine at the pain it brought to be mobile again. He rubbed his wrists. He swiftly snapped his head to the side and his neck cracked. “I’ll be feeling that position tomorrow.” He rolled his head around on his shoulders and groaned. “Or today.” Flynn let his jacket fall off his arms and to the floor. He sat wearing only his shirt. “I’ll need to use the shower,” he stated. “You’re a very enthusiastic boy, aren’t you, Wyatt?”

“You can’t just—”

“No.” He could. He wanted to be thorough. Flynn was a meticulously clean person. He was dirty from sex and sweaty from exerting himself in a Texas summer.

Wyatt nodded his head and gestured at the attached bathroom. “Go on then, whatever.”

“Will you still be here when I get out?” It was not an inquiry hanging onto the hope of further companionship. If Wyatt stuck around, it gave him time to change his mind. Flynn did not want to walk out to a gun and handcuffs again. “For all I know,” he said, “you’re only embarrassed to bring me in because there’s something to explain. What happens when I wash that off, huh?”

“Same thing,” Wyatt answered. “We’re done this time, Flynn. Just shower and get the hell out. Next mission, it’s a bullet. I won’t get close enough to make this mistake again.”

“Stay,” he commanded, wanting to keep Wyatt in his line of sight where he could trust him. “And we’ll leave together.”

Wyatt sighed. “I have to... pick up my team.”

“They’ll still be there in ten minutes.”

Wyatt hesitated. He did not want to spend any more time in Flynn’s presence, a place where everything was confusing and logic— duty— no longer applied. He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes.”

Flynn stood with difficulty. His arm muscles were sore. His legs were no better with the tight angle they had contorted into. He grimaced when his legs parted. Wyatt ordered him along without so much as a hand up.

Again, they fit poorly in the small bathroom. Wyatt kept to the wall and out of his way.

Flynn rolled out a long strip of toilet paper and folded it over. “If you watch this part it might ruin the illusion,” he told Wyatt. “I’d rather stay sexy to you.”

Wyatt snorted at the ridiculous notion but, out of consideration, looked away. He did not turn completely. He would not put his back to Flynn. But he did not look. From the very corner of his eye, Wyatt saw the unfocussed outline of Flynn propping his leg up on the lid of the commode and going over his ass with the tissue, cleaning himself out.

“Not so bad,” he said. “Not that much.”

Wyatt cleared his throat, feeling awkward to be on the receiving end of Flynn’s nonchalance. “You’re not... sore, are you?” he asked out of guilt, not concern.

Flynn sighed. “Tell me, Wyatt, between my ass and the bullet you put through my shoulder,” he said, “which do you think hurt worse?” Wyatt did not answer. “I can handle it. I’m fine.” He was telling the truth. Maybe it did not hurt as much as Wyatt thought, but he never wanted to be on the other end to find out. Flynn put his leg down. “My wrists are far worse, actually.” He held out an arm and it was irritated, scraped raw from the handcuff. It resembled Wyatt’s own wrists from the Watergate incident so closely that he felt no sympathy.

Flynn pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the bathroom counter. He stepped into the shower and closed the frosted glass door behind him. Wyatt watched him bathe. Flynn adjusted the showerhead to his height, and even then he had to dip down to wet his hair. It hit his face perfectly. He rubbed the pelting water against his skin. “Washcloth,” he requested, using Wyatt because he was there and he might as well. Wyatt tossed him one over the shower stall. Flynn lathered a bar of soap and began scrubbing his body. He was accustomed to making himself right at home in unfamiliar settings. It was a skill they shared. Flynn went over his chest and down his sides. It was sensual, privately intimate though completely innocent, innocuous. Wyatt swallowed. He looked at the wall.

“Maria Thompkins,” he inquired, speaking louder over the shower, “what’s so special about her? What is it she goes on to do? What about her son?”

Flynn did not want to answer. Be it personal business or part of a plot, the information was precious to him. When he spoke, he took care to only partially reveal the guarded secret. “She will... go on to do a great many things,” Flynn told him, “never anything so grand as to make it into our history books, but... amazing... in their own right.” He was distracted by his thoughts and did not notice the modest smile he was making, distorted through the clouded glass. The expression did not stay long. “Her son, however, never had the chance to accomplish anything. His life ended today. It did... I prevented that from happening.”

“We can’t just... play God like that,” Wyatt exclaimed.

“Are you upset you didn’t stop me?” he asked. He washed down his arms and up beneath them. “You would have let him die, let that... poor woman lose her son?”

“No.” Wyatt’s dedication to preserving the timeline was less passionate than Lucy’s. “But the effects it might have...”

“I saved a life, Wyatt,” Flynn said, “an innocent life that deserved to be saved.” He was not sorry. He would do it again without hesitation. “Whether or not you believe it, I work... hard... to eliminate Rittenhouse. I’ve earned this- this... modicum of payment, of selfishness.”

“Who are they going to be?”

“No one important.” That was all he would give. Flynn had his own secrets, too personal to let Wyatt in. He was not important enough to hear the truth.

Wyatt sighed. “You can’t volunteer for a job no one asked you to do and expect a reward.”

“No,” Flynn agreed, “but I will take it all the same.” He washed lower, going attentively, if gently, over his ass. Wyatt wanted to watch and, for that reason, did not let himself. He stepped into the bedroom to grab the rest of Flynn’s clothes and make an attempt at cleaning the mess in the floor. With the broken door and the bullet holes, their presence would be known to the owners. What they did in the house was something they could keep between just the two of them.

When he came back into the bathroom, Flynn was opening the shower door. The metal frame scratched against its metal track. “Towel,” he called. Wyatt tossed him one. He dried himself and noticed his clothes in Wyatt’s arms. “How kind of you,” he commented, “or it’s your guilt... overcompensating.”

Not even Wyatt knew which one it was. “What have I got to feel guilty over?” he bluffed.

“Would you like a list?” Flynn retorted. He could make one easily. Wyatt did not want to hear it. He did not want a retelling of what he just did to another human being.

“You owed me,” was all he said, trying to compare it to the punch between them, as if the two acts were equal.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Flynn said, going along with the comparison by making a mockery of it. “And then, also, I’m a villain, aren’t I, a sociopath? I... deserved it?” He laughed at Wyatt’s justifications, his excuses. He rubbed his hair with the towel and dropped it on the floor. Wyatt hung it up. “You can’t criticize me for what I do, for going after Rittenhouse,” Flynn asserted. He began dressing. “I am lucky because... I know who killed my family. I feel sorry for you.” Wyatt did not want his pity. “You can’t... honestly tell me if you knew who murdered your wife you wouldn’t bring them to justice by whatever means. And if they were above the law, would you not circumvent it? Would you not make them pay with your own two hands, all while saying her name so they knew... so they _knew_  why it was happening.” Flynn was forlorn. “We used to be good men before this happened to us.”

“I’m still a good man,” Wyatt stated.

“You were,” Flynn maintained, “before I happened to you. Or would you really have done what you just did a year ago, a month ago?” He taught Wyatt to take what he wanted. It was true. “But even now... you’re still a better version than the man you’ll be when you find your wife’s killer.” The claim hit a nerve with Wyatt, but he hid any outward reaction. “Or is imprisonment good enough for them?” Flynn questioned. “Is California’s slow march to the death penalty an adequate retribution for you?” He wanted to rile Wyatt. He always succeeded where few others could. Flynn knew the buttons to push. “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous,” he said. “Maybe you are lucky with your... perpetual mercy and your faith in the police and in courts. How easy it must be to sleep at night.” Wyatt clenched his teeth together. Flynn spoke casually enough, but all his words contained was the sadistic taunt that Wyatt’s devotion to his wife was lesser. “I will accept nothing less than the obliteration of my family’s murderer. I know who it is, and I’m going to wipe them out. Do you understand now, lucky unlucky boy?” He took his socks and shoes and pushed past Wyatt, leaving the bathroom.

“I’m not lucky,” Wyatt spat, following him, “and you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, not any of it.”

“Not lucky?” Flynn argued. He sat on the bed and crossed his leg over the other to put on his sock. “Oh, I know you are lucky, Wyatt. I know that you are. So... lucky that the police ruled you out as a suspect in your wife’s death. Ruled you out instead of- instead of _classifying you_  as their only person of interest. And still... your luck continues. How very lucky, yes, to have no... children to outlive. You lost your wife, and that is a... heartbreak of its own, but remember that you could have lost more that day. It’s the greatest joy in the world to be a father. No word can describe it.” He smiled with his lips, but his eyes were dark and dead. “It’s the greatest pain to lose it... my little girl. No word can describe it.”

Wyatt experienced the unwanted duty to comfort Flynn, to say some reassurance as the man continued to pour out his heart and its every hardship. He did not. He shared his own miseries, creating a rapport instead of a sympathy. “Jessica... wanted kids,” he said, and he was irritated at himself for giving away that precious secret, “but we just never... It was my fault. We were young and I thought we had nothing but time.”

“A boy,” Flynn specified, another one of Lucy’s overshares from the journal, no doubt. “She wanted a boy.”

“Sometimes I think, ya know, if she were pregnant, or if we had a rugrat crawling around,” Wyatt inhaled deeply, “we wouldn’t have gone out drinking.”

Flynn was sympathetic, or he pretended it well enough to show on his face. “Wishing won’t change what happened that night,” he said, “though I’m certain you’ve tried.”

“I sent a letter,” he confessed, “when we were in, ya know, 1962.”

“Won’t work,” Flynn told him. “It creates a paradox.” Since the inception of his quest, he had put much consideration into time travel. Wyatt was learning as they went. “You send the letter, you go home together, she lives. So... you never have a reason to send the letter. But then, of course, she dies. You have to send it. We live in a universe where it didn’t work at all. The letter... slipped through the cracks after so many years. Or she disregarded it. Maybe you found something new to fight about, some other reason for her to get out of the car.”

“I still have to try, right?” The entire situation was hopeless, like going up a mountain with no end in sight but not want to give up and stop climbing. “I mean, what’s the point of all this time travel bull if we can’t make our own lives better somehow?”

Flynn opened his jacket, and Wyatt quickly aimed his gun on the man. He continued unimpeded. From the inside pocket he removed a letter and gave it to Wyatt, who holstered his weapon so he could take it. The addressee was Lorena Flynn. “I mail one of these,” he said, “every time we jump to a place in the twentieth century. Two,” he corrected, “I send two. One to her saying to leave, to take Iris and go. Drive south. Take... a room overlooking the parking lot at the eighth motel she passes. Stay there. I send another to myself, telling me it’s- it’s not... important. Let it go. Don’t ask. Don’t ask and just... let it go. Let... it go.” He inhaled slowly, shakily. “But nothing’s changed in the present, not yet.”

Wyatt gave the letter back so it could be mailed. “Aren’t you worried?” he asked. “If you stop Rittenhouse, isn’t that a, uh, paradox? If they don’t kill your family, you can’t stop them from killing your family.” It was all very confusing, but Wyatt was confident in the point he was making.

“I don’t know what will happen,” Flynn admitted. “But maybe one day... one of me will return to a universe where they’re alive. They’ll live… while another… version of myself continues suffering their deaths. I want... to be the happy man who sees them again. And until I can become him, I will take my pleasures from dismantling Rittenhouse piece by piece, decade by decade, and century by century.”

“There’s got to be a better way,” Wyatt argued. He was not on Flynn’s side by any stretch of the imagination, but maybe he was less against him now. “People’s lives are being lost. Lucy’s sister—”

“I know!” Flynn snapped. He was upset over the fact. He stood to his full height. It was intimidating. “I know.” He took a breath. “You think I enjoy any of this? You think _I like_  killing, that I like helping Nazis and Russians? You think I like killing powerful figures of American history, heroes, men I admired?”

“Yes.”

“I’m good at killing,” he said, “like you. I always have been. It doesn’t mean I enjoy it.” He seemed sincere, but Wyatt knew by now he was a decent actor. “I wish... I didn’t have to, but the world’s not so fair, is it? If I don’t act, no one will. Too many people— good people— have died by Rittenhouse’s hands. It’s not a duty to stop them, Wyatt. It’s a burden.”

Wyatt did not want to hear any more. Flynn would not convince him by words alone. Wyatt needed more evidence before he made a definite opinion, about Rittenhouse and about Flynn himself. “Leave,” he said. “I’ll go out behind you. Then we’ll split in different directions.” Flynn nodded his head, accepting the planned procedure. Wyatt reached for his gun again so he could maintain control until they were through.

Before that end did come, Flynn surged forward and kissed him. Wyatt let it happen. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders. Long fingers squeezed them. Flynn’s tongue worked its way into his mouth. His hands worked down his back. They pulled Wyatt even closer, flush up against his front, holding him there. Wyatt’s arms were trapped between them, constrained against Flynn’s chest. His fingers grabbed at that red shirt. Flynn rocked them in a gentle sway. His lips pressed sweetly. He let his hands go farther down. They squeezed Wyatt’s ass, a liberty that was not appreciated but was tolerated. Then one hand moved higher, beneath Wyatt’s jacket. Flynn pulled out his gun.

“Back up,” he whispered against Wyatt’s lips. He kissed him one final time, a gentle, almost mocking, nip. The gun’s muzzle dug into Wyatt’s side. He did as told. “Never... let... your guard down,” Flynn lectured. He certainly did not. He waited for his opportunity, and he manipulated Wyatt until he had it.

“You son of a bitch.” Wyatt put his arms out to the side as a gesture of submission.

“I’m walking out of here on my terms,” Flynn stated. He did not trust Wyatt’s eccentric mercy. He never had. Flynn secured his freedom himself. He put another step between them. “Slowly— _slowly_ — take out your weapon. Good boy. Now, put it on the floor and slide it under the bed.” Wyatt obeyed.

“I should have shot you when I had the chance,” he growled.

“Yes, you should have,” Flynn concurred. He grinned. “Relax, Wyatt. I’m not going to shoot you,” he promised. Wyatt stepped forward, and Flynn cocked his gun as a warning. “I won’t shoot to kill,” he amended. “Not now, not... when you are finally becoming interesting.”

“Got a funny way of showing... interest,” Wyatt scoffed. “Or do you end all your dates this way?”

“Face it, Wyatt,” he reasoned, “if we parted under any sort of amicable agreement, you’d kick yourself for letting any of it happen. Now? Now, you can go back to hating me.” How generous he made it sound.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Wyatt criticized. “I hated you the entire time.” He never stopped.

Flynn was impressed, proud, of his newest side, his darker side. “Like I said,” he repeated, “’interesting.’“ He lowered his gun but made sure to keep it in his hand and accessible. “This was fun.” He laughed. “We’ll have to do it again sometime... soon.”

“Stay the hell away from me,” Wyatt snapped.

Flynn wore a smirk and unclear intentions. He took one step back, then another. He did not take his eyes off Wyatt. He watched him, waiting for his own excuse to shoot. When he backed out of the room, he glanced down the hallway. He looked back into the bedroom. His pause was reluctant, and yet he could not stop himself. Flynn leaned against the opening with a hand on either side of its frame. Stopping went against his rationale. What he did next did so even more. His eyes were on the ground, not Wyatt. “Don’t doubt,” he said, “I still like you, even if you are on the wrong side of this war.” The sentiment was fit to follow their kiss but not the pistol that had come after. “If you were to come with me,” he proposed, “if you did, I can’t promise we’d get your wife back... but we would try. I’m sure it’s better than the offer you currently have.”

It was. Lucy had a deal for her sister because Amy’s erasure was the result of their meddling. Wyatt had no such promises regarding his wife. “I’d be a traitor.” It was his largest concern. Betraying his country was a disgust. The prospect of working alongside Flynn had to come in second place behind it.

“Yes.” Flynn’s hand dropped a few inches, but he did not let go of the door. He did not leave. “And it is more... unbearable to carry out than it is to... sit around contemplating. Often— very- very often— it is... almost impossible to manage.” He did not sugarcoat his offer. He gave a genuine expectation.

“I love Jessica,” Wyatt said. “I want her back... more than anything. But this... If she knew what I did... what I would have to do...” Flynn would not bring him along as a spectator, acting only when it benefited his purpose. Wyatt would be expected to participate in all his schemes.

“She would condemn your actions,” Flynn said, making known his own concerns. “She would condemn you.” It was a risk he took which Wyatt could not.

“I’m sorry.” The apology was bizarre even to himself. He had no idea what Flynn thought of it. “But I can’t.”

Wyatt did not ask Flynn to look into it for him, to save Jessica for him. He would undoubtedly refuse. Wyatt did not deserve reward without sacrifice. Flynn gave up everything for a minuscule chance. Wyatt did not get to exploit his sacrifice and ask for favors from it.

“My offer won’t expire.” It was a decent generosity.

“Neither will my answer.” But Wyatt had to say no.

Flynn let go of the doorway. His hands dropped to his sides. He nodded his head then held it high. He left, disappearing from sight.

Wyatt sprinted to the bed and dropped on the floor. He reached and reached with his hand until he pulled out his gun. By the time he made it through the house and outside, Flynn was gone. Wyatt cursed and muttered but accepted there was nothing he could change. He made a mistake, a big mistake. No one could ever know.

He had another secret.

Wyatt returned to his car so he could pick up Lucy and Rufus then head back to the _Lifeboat_  and present day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously I need one more chapter where Flynn’s in control again. And this time he’s on top. And Wyatt totally “hates” it. 
> 
> Maybe. If I can think of a good way to write it. And if I have the time to write it.
> 
> Just keep switching control back and forth between them forever.
> 
> Also, Wyatt came inside Flynn and obviously, me being me, all I can think about is an unfortunate mpreg plot. Haha. Fun times, right? I could make a case for it. Who knows what time travel does to you, how it might mess you up without your knowing. And Flynn would be the sort of little shit to make no bones about who the baby daddy is. Publicly. Try explaining that one away, Wyatt.


	3. Tied Up Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, this is even longer than the first two chapters. Why can I not just shut the hell up? I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to go at a believable pace. If you’re here to read a quick bang, I have bad news for you, my friend. If you’re interested in the slowest crawl to sex there ever was coupled with unnecessarily long character interaction, carry on and enjoy.
> 
> Consent in this fic is so weird and messed up. Really messed up. I love it.
> 
> *This chapter happens in the lull after Space Race and before the Bonnie and Clyde episode.

The light bulb in the hall was blown, and Wyatt had dropped his keys like some bad actress in a horror flick. He tried to pick them off the floor, within the dark and without dropping his bags of groceries. He managed. He actually pulled it off. Of course, when he came to stand back up, the rag of chloroform over his face shocked him into dropping them all anyway. He fought against the figure behind him, but it was a strong body, a tall body, one he was familiar with. The rag anchored immovably to his face until he breathed and breathed again. He felt numbness in his extremities followed by the loss of their control. Stable arms caught him.

Wyatt slept involuntarily.

He woke as soon as he could make himself. Everything was different. He was in his apartment, and an unfamiliar location was one less thing to worry about. He was in his bed. He was completely nude.

It seemed they were finally giving up any pretense. It was what it was, and what it happened to be was an unhealthy redefinition of what constituted as normal, expected.

Wyatt reasoned that if it had to happen (and it undoubtedly would), it might be nice on a bed for once— certainly better than having his arms pulled back through a chair or kneeling on hard wood. Lying on a bed while Flynn rode him again was the all around better option. Wyatt assumed that was the plan because all four of his limbs were tied to all four corners of the bed by lines of rope. He was not getting on top of Flynn as he was.

There was a choice for Wyatt to go on pretending he was asleep, or he could face the music and get it over with. “Flynn,” he called, knowing the man was near. He came out of the bathroom.

Flynn was halfway undressed, wearing a white tank top hanging over black pants. His feet were bare down to his socks. His smile was just as at home as the rest of him. “Good evening, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted as a taunt. “Nice of you to finally join me.”

“If you’re that impatient,” Wyatt said, “maybe use a little less chloroform next time, huh?” The spit in his mouth was thick and dry. He went over it with his tongue, but that helped nothing. “Or don’t hold it on so long.”

“Yes,” Flynn agreed, “I’ll try to remember how... sensitive you are to its effects.”

“Water,” Wyatt requested, sidestepping the dig.

Flynn went into the kitchen area and ran a glass under the sink. “I did put away your cold foods so they wouldn’t spoil,” he informed. He turned off the tap.

Wyatt did not thank the bare minimum gesture of courtesy. “Light bulb in the hall,” he commented instead, “that you?”

“Unscrewed it,” Flynn confirmed. “Old trick.” It made magnificent shadows for him to hide within.

He put a knee into the mattress and leaned down with the glass of water. Wyatt lifted up, and Flynn put a hand on the back of his head to help keep him steady. Wyatt drank and then hummed when he was through, sated of his imposed thirst. Flynn set the half-empty glass on the bedside table.

“Guess this means I gotta move now, huh?” He would never again sleep peacefully, not while Flynn had his address.

“Don’t tell me you were actually attached to the place,” Flynn replied. He looked around at the bare decor. Wyatt’s apartment had the personality and individual impression of a cheap hotel. The most personal touch was the wallpaper of articles pertaining to his wife’s case.

Flynn looked at him, eyes courteously remaining above the shoulders. He leaned in. Wyatt let the kiss happen. He returned it. Flynn’s upper body loomed above him. His hands dug into either side of the pillow beneath Wyatt’s head. Their lips opened and smacked against each other’s in a somewhat lazy and careless kiss. There was no time limit for them this time, no need to rush. Wyatt found he liked and disliked the sense of leisure— and for the same reason. It made kissing Flynn seem less prohibited, less unstable, and more casual. What a dangerous concept.

That kiss was the precursor of more to come. They ended it before slipping into the main event. Flynn pulled away and got out of bed. He took off his socks and grabbed his shirt.

“Maria Thompkins was your mother,” Wyatt said. With nothing better to do than lie there, he settled for smalltalk. Flynn’s shirt came over his head. He looked somewhat impressed that Wyatt had managed to get ahold of the information— or that he cared enough to look into it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Flynn shrugged. “Thought it best you didn’t know,” he said, “not in the past, not in a time when you could have changed the present. I don’t know how... severe your orders are.”

Wyatt was shocked to hear that, “You seriously think I would’ve killed her—”

“To stop me from being born, yes,” he said.

“Innocent civilians should never be a target,” Wyatt stated. The moment he began making sacrifices like that would be the moment he became as bad as Flynn. “It’s not her fault she gave birth to you. But I’m sure she blames herself for it after all you’ve done since.”

“She’s dead now,” Flynn said, and somehow he managed to sound detached and uncaring towards the fact. It was a front.

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt offered, extending the standard condolence. He had met the woman. She was smart, kind. Flynn obviously loved her.

“What for?” the man replied. “You’re not what killed her. Apparently, you’re not that sort of man.”

“Just take the damn sentiment,” Wyatt huffed.

Flynn would not, not for several seconds, then he gave in. “Thank you,” he said. He immediately changed the subject from something so personal. “You know, you hold a really commendable amount of esteem for a man naked in front of his adversary,” he congratulated.

“What, you think you’re the only enemy I’m sleeping with?” Wyatt joked. “Buddy, there’s a _line_.”

“Really?” Flynn said, and he tilted his head to the side. “How long of a line? Am I supposed to be jealous?”

“Do you feel jealous?” Wyatt did not want an answer and immediately regretted asking the question. A yes from Flynn had a dozen different implications, and none of them were good. There would be no negative response. Flynn would always prefer messing with his head. Wyatt pushed a return to light banter before Flynn could speak. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite,” was undoubtedly the wrong thing to say, but Wyatt said it.

“You’re more confident this time,” Flynn remarked. He liked the change.

“What’s there to complain about?” Wyatt said. “Think I’ve worked the routine out by now. We what? We bump uglies, we hate ourselves a bit, we go our separate ways. That about the gist of it?”

“About,” he said. He dipped his chin in a little nod, and his head rested at the declined angle as he thought. It was so similar to the first time, how he stood there regarding Wyatt and deciding if he wanted to carry through with what perversion he had in mind. “I thought... we might try something different this time,” he suggested. “Just to shake things up.” And even with the obscurity of his words, the meaning was crystal clear. Explanation was written all over the wide grin he was trying to wrangle.

That was not happening.

Wyatt pulled on the ropes. It rattled the bed. “Nuh-uh,” he objected. “We are not doing this.” He put considerable muscle strength into tugging on his bindings, pushing himself in a way that would leave him sore. He turned his hands around and grabbed the ropes. He pulled. It chafed his palms but not around the wrists where Flynn had wrapped a piece of cloth first, anticipating his struggle, minimizing the inevitable damage. The ropes would not budge. They were tied with intricate knots around the legs of the bed frame. The combined weight of Wyatt and the mattress held them in place.

“You worry too much,” Flynn criticized. “You still need to learn to be more flexible. Trust me, Wyatt. Have I led you astray yet?” Trust between them was a fantastical concept, never betrayed but never truly earned. It was a joke. “You owe me after last time.”

“You owed me that!”

“Well,” he considered, “it’s not _exactly_  a fair comparison, is it?” He drew disproportionate correlations between the two. “I tied you sitting in a chair, I let you fuck me, I made sure you were taken care of, had a good time. And in return, what do you do? Let’s see,” he bitterly recounted, “you... handcuffed me, you put a gun to my head, forced me over on the floor, and... took advantage of me.” He snorted through his nose. “In what world would I not be pissed about that?” His smile was wide and false. It was exaggerated mirth covering an anger of which he had decent control. Flynn began unbuckling his belt.

“Whoa, whoa. What’s wrong with the other way?” Wyatt questioned, knowing he was selfish in asking it. “The way we’ve been doing it, what’s wrong with that?”

Flynn chuckled. “I am still a man, Wyatt,” he said. “I do like to be on top every now and then. I prefer it actually.” He kept his belt hanging in the loops and undid the button of his pants. “You’ve had your turn— twice. Now it’s mine.”

“Don’t- don’t,” Wyatt entreated, “don’t do this.”

“See, that’s what you said the first time,” Flynn pointed out. “And then,” he was utterly amused by the fact that, “you did what you did. You’re sending me such... mixed signals. I hardly know what to do with you.” He could not stop smiling. “I couldn’t... stop thinking about it. Do you know I actually felt bad about what I did? It’s true. And then... _the way_  you held onto the door of the _Mothership_  in 1754,” he gave a pitying sigh, “almost to the point of your own obliteration. I thought you were prepared to pursue me to the ends of the Earth and all its time periods. Little did I know,” he chuckled, “you were after a different sort of payback. It’s much more interesting, I have to say. I have to say.”

“I made a mistake,” Wyatt called it. That was all it was.

“A refreshing mistake,” Flynn insisted. “I apologize for ever thinking you were boring. Obedient little soldiers don’t do what you did. Perhaps you have a mind of your own after all.”

“You want me to apologize?” Wyatt asked. “I’m sorry. It didn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did,” Flynn said. “It did happen. You tried to finish what I started, but we’re not done yet. You want to know what you did, Wyatt? Do you want to know what you did? You opened a gateway. One time is barbarity. Twice is requital. But three times,” he proclaimed, “three times is a pattern. So yes, Wyatt, yes... This is us now.” He was resigned to it and determined in it.

“And I can’t convince you otherwise?” He had not managed it the first time. He doubted he would manage it now. When Flynn set his mind to something, it tended to happen.

“No,” Flynn predictably answered.

“And you’re... not gonna feel guilty about this,” he asked, “like after the first time?”

“No, I probably will,” he conceded. “But, like the first time, I’ll make certain we both have some fun at least.” It helped his conscience when Wyatt did not want it to.

“Let me go,” he requested one last time, preying upon a fickle mercy. “Don’t do this.”

Flynn did not answer him again. He did not waste his breath. The decision was made. Flynn was going to have sex with him, and that was that. The thought was so undesirable Wyatt could barely form it. He could not take it past the conceptual and the surreal. And yet he knew— he knew— that every step they had taken until that point managed to soften the blow. Somehow, resignation trumped dread.

Flynn pulled his pants down over his hips and took his boxers with them for efficiency’s sake. Wyatt averted his eyes. There was a whole new level of intimidation from seeing the man naked.

“I really don’t talk you out of this, do I?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Flynn said. His pants made a thump and a clang when fabric and belt buckle were tossed onto the desk. “I don’t _actually_  see into the future, you know, only what Lucy writes. And if she does ever find out about... this, she chose not to record it.”

Wyatt did not want to think about his team. Somehow, his time with Flynn was the preferable subject. “Can I at least turn around so I don’t have to look at you?” he asked. He expected the answer he received.

“No.” Flynn had purposefully positioned him as he was. Their styles were so opposing. Flynn liked to look at him during. Wyatt liked to cover the man’s head to the point of unrecognition. Flynn returned to the bed and leaned over Wyatt to whisper in his ear. “You can close your eyes.” They both knew it would not last. He would look eventually.

Flynn tried to kiss him again, but Wyatt turned his head. He glared at the dark green wall. “How ‘bout we not pretend?”

“You think I want to kiss you to, what, make myself feel better?” Flynn replied. “I know you don’t want it, Wyatt. I know you’d be content to go on screwing on top of everything and lying that you’re straight.”

“I am straight!” Wyatt turned back to yell.

Flynn raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing verbal that Wyatt could contradict. The doubt was not welcome. Wyatt still felt straight. He liked women, was turned on by women. He was not attracted to men, not even Flynn, who, yes, was handsome. Willingly engaging in sex with him last time, getting hard and getting off, it developed nothing.

“I’m straight. Nothing you do’s gonna change that. So can we just nix the whole you on top thing already?”

His stubbornness was received with frustration. “Take it like a man,” Flynn moaned, “and stop whining like a goddamn child. You didn’t see me complaining.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt argued, “because you’d done it before. I’m practically a damn...”

“What?” Wyatt did not answer, but he felt his face go hot and red. Flynn had little patience for his modesty. “A virgin?” he questioned. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Shut up,” Wyatt growled at him. It was humiliating to be mocked for something perfectly respectable. “Bastard.”

Flynn cleared his throat. He took in a breath through his nose. He won back his tranquility. “You’re nervous,” he observed.

“Go to hell.”

“It’s all right,” Flynn assured. He patted Wyatt’s cheek. “We’ll go at your pace, hm? How’s that? Let you keep some of that control. Got to sound a little good, right?” He nodded his head until Wyatt half-heartedly mimicked the gesture. “We’ll go very... very slow.” He drew away, and that was worrisome with its implication.

“Promise,” Wyatt ordered, but it sounded so lame and wimpy, pathetic. “Promise you’ll go slow.”

Flynn smiled kindly. “Slow,” he said, and when he tried for a kiss again, it was permitted. Wyatt closed his eyes and did not open them. “I swear.” The long body which had been hovering above Wyatt came down, pressing bare flesh against flesh. Flynn’s chest was warm after nothing having touched Wyatt’s skin but the draft of the apartment. The kiss they continued was pleasant in a deterring sort of way, an action encouraged to steal focus. Flynn moved his weight to one arm and let the hand of the other touch and caress down Wyatt’s side, never going below his hip. Those damn lips traveled Wyatt’s neck down to his collar bone, dropping kisses like footsteps.

“Foreplay,” Wyatt marveled with sarcasm, “what’s that?”

“What?” Flynn replied. He kissed Wyatt’s breast. “I can’t make it special? Better than your first time with a woman, certainly.” He tilted his head up while resting his hands on Wyatt’s stomach and sides. “Let’s see, it was... in the back of a classic car (large back seat but covered in uncomfortable leather), and you were parked on the side of the road somewhere in... east Texas?”

Wyatt opened his eyes to glare. “No way is that in your damn journal,” he objected.

“No,” Flynn agreed. “Shot in the dark.”

“Am I that predictable?”

He smirked and winked. “Not anymore.” When he resumed the indulgent foreplay, Flynn went further down Wyatt’s abdomen. He licked over the gunshot wound he dealt, now healed but for the scars. They would fade more with time but never completely disappear. Flynn bit, drawing the skin between his teeth. He sucked on it hard enough to leave a mark, his undoubted aspiration.

Flynn revered Wyatt’s body with his mouth. It did feel good to be the center of attention. With women, Wyatt was responsible for most of the work. He liked laying there and letting Flynn kiss all over him with no purpose but his pleasure. Wyatt let his eyes slip closed again. He felt Flynn tonguing and sucking on a nipple, and he moaned quietly in his throat, his coy request for more. Flynn kept it up another minute until he went higher again. He kissed Wyatt’s lips first, then his neck. Teeth followed. He bit gently but sucked hard on the skin in his mouth. It was too hard to have any aim other than the obvious one.

Wyatt jerked underneath the man and tried to make him stop. He rolled his head back and forth, but Flynn had a good hold on the skin in his teeth. “Stop!” Wyatt ordered and was ignored. “I don’t want people thinking I...” They would never arrive at the conclusion that he slept with Garcia Flynn, but it was tacky looking all the same. “No hickeys, damn it.”

Flynn withdrew his teeth and closed his lips around them. He kissed the mark. “Too late,” he said, and his voice was a deep rumble. “Maybe a high shirt collar?” He feigned contrition but was not sorry. It was intentional. He enjoyed putting Wyatt in difficult situations.

“God, I hate you,” Wyatt muttered. It showed.

“You’re having trouble again,” Flynn commented on his soft cock.

“You can’t honestly expect me to be excited for this,” he scoffed. “It’s every man’s worst nightmare.”

“What a mild nightmare it is,” Flynn said, belittling it and laying bare its tame nature. “These men should rearrange their priorities against true horrors. You know there are worse things, Wyatt, horrible things, true nightmares. Don’t exaggerate this.”

Wyatt was obstinately silent. He would not concede to the idea that it was perfectly innocuous and he had nothing to worry about. “Just...” He looked away. He knew from the first time that there was no use fighting. Flynn would win. “Get on with it. What’s it matter if I’m hard? You’re on top.” His erection was an irrelevant part of the process.

“If you don’t enjoy yourself,” Flynn said, “I’m only taking. Sex is something shared, Wyatt.” He had a warped honor associated with it, completely null when at the end he was still taking.

Flynn crawled down Wyatt’s body and let his hands trail behind him, outlining his descent. He touched Wyatt’s chest and his abdomen. He went out and dragged palms and fingers over his hips instead down the middle. Flynn caressed his thighs then his shins. He picked his foot off the bed.

“What are you doing?” Wyatt asked. His tone was not of surprise, but exasperation.

“Relaxing you,” Flynn answered. “You’re very tightly wound.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

Flynn ignored the remark. “How does it feel?” he said instead. His long thumbs pushed into the soft skin of Wyatt’s foot and dragged up, going from his heel to his toes, spreading apart to cover as much as possible.

“Good,” he said. There was no point in lying. “Real good.”

“You like that, huh?” Flynn was pleased with himself.

“Yeah.” Wyatt could endure Flynn’s smug attitude so long as he was on the receiving end of a foot massage and not something else, not the unpleasant inevitable. “Yeah, I like that. I like that a lot. Keep going.”

Flynn’s head dipped down, and he kissed and bit the skin of Wyatt’s leg. There was such a sensual attention going on below his knee that Wyatt was almost able to slip out of his mind, shed his concerns, and lie there in a disassociated contentment. He heard himself moaning hushed little sounds of approval. When the massage stopped, he complained, but Flynn was quick to assure him that he was simply changing legs. He started over again on the other foot. Flynn pushed fingers into his calf muscle that fluctuated between a digging pressure and caress.

“This I could do all night long,” Wyatt sighed. He was indulged for a long while. Against the man’s very many faults, Flynn was a generous lover. He had that going for him.

Flynn chuckled. He was amused by Wyatt’s receptive attitude, and if they had time and the convenience of leisure, he might have kept at it for however long was asked of him. His hands progressed, working upwards at such a slow rate it went unnoticed until he was rubbing Wyatt’s thighs. That was difficult to ignore, but Wyatt did his best to think of anything else. He succeeded until he did not.

“God!” His eyes shot open. He looked down so that sight could corroborate touch’s claim and confirm that Flynn’s mouth really was sucking him off. “Bastard.” It felt good, and Wyatt hated him more for it.

Flynn opened his mouth and released him to speak. “Should I have warned you?” he said with a smirk.

“Yes.” Wyatt did not care how embarrassing it was that he immediately ordered, “Don’t stop. Get back on there.” When they had sex, his pride was as good as gone. It slunk into a corner to be ignored and picked up on the way out. Flynn let him do that without mockery. The man never stopped enforcing the idea that it was all about pleasure, and pleasure was a vice to be satisfied shamelessly. He wanted Wyatt to lose his inhibitions. He would not judge him for it. “Damn it,” Wyatt sighed when Flynn resumed. He had an amazing ass and a warm, wet mouth. It was a shame about all the crazy. “You couldn’t have done this the first time?” Wyatt chastised. The attention was incredible. Flynn was going to get the erection he wanted from him, no doubt about that. “This instead of... whatever the hell you did before.”

Flynn stopped again to talk. “You know what I did,” he said. He had no care towards preserving Wyatt’s modesty. “We do have the internet here, Wyatt.” He looked over his shoulder at the laptop on the desk. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t look into all those little somethings? You don’t look up what it was, what happened and why? I think you research everything,” Flynn asserted. “I think... by now, you know exactly what you’re in for too, what I’m going to do to you. You’re curious. You are. I’ve made you curious, and you need an explanation behind the physicality of it all, hm? And maybe a little bit behind the... mentality too?” He pumped Wyatt’s wet cock lazily in his fist, keeping busy while his mouth was moving. “I think, perhaps, you look up some... vindication for how you’re feeling emotionally. Huh? Visit a few chatrooms, ask a few anonymous questions, read accounts that sound a little familiar?”

“Shut up,” Wyatt snapped. It was too close to the truth. Flynn’s assumptions, his perceptions, were too humiliating.

“Just how curious are you?” Flynn inquired. His free hand was on Wyatt’s thigh. He brought it further in. “Have you gone here yet?”

“No!” Flynn did not have to believe him, but that much was true.

“Lucky me.”

“Sick son of a bitch,” Wyatt cursed. He was disgusting and cruel. Knowing it would do no good, Wyatt pulled on his ropes again. It gave mental satisfaction to know he resisted Flynn.

“I know what you want.” He quieted Wyatt and stilled him by licking over his cock and taking it back in his mouth.

“God, you son of a bitch.” Wyatt repeated himself until the swear meant something separate, until he was using it as approval and panting it between barely opened lips. His voice cracked and became soft as he muttered, “Ah... Ah, son of a bitch.” His breathing stuttered. “Son of a bitch.”

Flynn alternated in his approach. Either he was pretty good or he was living out a fantasy through Wyatt. He never went very deep, never past the back of his mouth, but he would suck and lick several times before pulling away and using his hand the whole way down. The pattern was unpredictable and left Wyatt disoriented in the best of ways.

He felt restless. He felt dragged to an approaching end. His hips jerked once and then again and a third time. Flynn gagged and pulled away. He coughed and it was hoarse. “Damn it,” he hissed, “I’m not _that_  good at this.” His ability to deepthroat was nonexistent or out of practice.

“Sorry.” Wyatt wanted to want to be more sincere, but it was Flynn he was apologizing to. It had also been too long since he had a blowjob, and he was not surprised by his enthusiasm.

“And you can tell that to my throat,” Flynn snapped. His voice was strained and deep. He coughed again. “You’re done,” he decided, letting Wyatt ruin it for himself. He was hard now. He was wanting. That was the objective, and it was achieved.

“No, no, no. I’m not done.” Flynn stopped before he was done.

“You finish now,” Flynn told him, “you’ve got nothing to look forward to. I need your cooperation somehow. I’ll buy it cheap.”

Wyatt laughed and it was an angry sound. “God, you suck.”

“Eh, not anymore, no.” He wiped his wet lips on the back of his hand. Flynn rose up over Wyatt’s body and snatched the extra pillow at the head of the bed. He patted Wyatt on the cheek as he came back down. “Hips up,” he instructed. No movement. No obedience. Flynn tapped his thigh. “Wyatt,” he admonished, “pick your hips up.”

With a groan and a huff, Wyatt complied. Flynn pushed the pillow up beneath his lower back. It lifted him a small amount. It made him more accessible, and was that not a distressing thought?

Flynn reached for the nightstand and grabbed his furnished supplies. A bottle was nearly eclipsed in his long fingers. Wyatt knew what it was though. He knew what it was. “Now, I need you to be open with me,” Flynn encouraged. “Don’t be the tough soldier. Communication is _very_  important, and... I want you to have fun with it.” That was laughable, but Wyatt did not laugh. “Are you ready?”

“No!”

Flynn did not persevere through his objection. He waited. Patiently, he waited, keeping constant physical contact by rubbing Wyatt’s leg or his abdomen, occasionally his cock. “Let me know when you’re ready now,” Flynn said. “If you’re quiet, I have to decide for you, and I don’t... want to do that.” It was happening. Nothing would stop that. But he was considerate enough to let Wyatt control every other aspect, including that important one of how hasty it went. There was a unique relief in that. Flynn did not have to do it, but the offer made Wyatt feel better. It gave him back some authority. It helped more than anything.

“Yeah,” he decided. “Just go ahead. Sooner we start, sooner we get it over with. But,” he quickly reminded, “slow, right? Slow?”

“Slow,” Flynn promised again. He pushed Wyatt’s leg up, bending it for a better angle, going until the rope pulled taut on his ankle. The lid popped open on the lube, and Flynn drizzled some on his fingers. Wyatt looked away. “I can’t guarantee you’ll like it,” Flynn prepared him, being honest. “In fact, I am fairly certain you’ll _dis_ -like it out of spite. But what I can do is promise to make it feel good. That I have control over.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt nodded his head. “Yeah, whatever the hell you gotta tell yourself, pal, you go right on ahead.”

Flynn ignored him. “Relax,” he coached. It was a nice suggestion, but the fingers brushing against his ass did away with the possibility of that happening. Flynn spread him apart with one hand, really putting him on display for the fingers of the other. One of them traced over his asshole so delicately but did not penetrate. “Say when.”

It was not so much a decision for action as it was a decision to abandon inaction, give up his existence in limbo. “When,” he exhaled. Flynn pushed the tip of his finger in, and Wyatt immediately jerked away as a reflex. “Nope,” he said, “nope.”

“I’ve got all night,” Flynn replied, casual and patient and condescending. He most likely was on some sort of schedule, but he would push his time in Wyatt’s apartment for the sake of making it happen.

“I hate you,” Wyatt muttered. He drew his legs in until he lost slack from the ropes. “Go. Just do it.”

Flynn doubted his renewed conviction and dawdled in jumping right back in. He put a hand on Wyatt’s cock and gave it a little squeeze and a few good pumps. His slicked fingers pushed on Wyatt’s rim but did not push in until the second he relaxed. He got one most of the way in before Wyatt tensed again.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Flynn cautioned. He went deeper, going against Wyatt’s tension. His knuckles pressed up against him when it was all in. It was not so bad, and Wyatt made himself calm down as the finger pulled out so it could push back. “Mm,” Flynn hummed, “you are very tight, Wyatt.”

“Let me guess: lucky you?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it out loud,” he said with a laugh, “but yes.” He twisted his finger, giving it a little corkscrew motion as he fucked Wyatt with it. “And how does it feel?”

“You know exactly how it feels,” Wyatt stated. “Shut up.” He did not want to discuss it. Flynn continued with the thrusting motion, teaching Wyatt how it was to be penetrated, going in a predictable pattern. Then he threw a curveball. “Ho!” Wyatt exclaimed. His whole body twitched and fell back into the bed. “What... God...”

“Better from the inside, hm?” Flynn said with a wide and curling smile.

“Better,” Wyatt confirmed. “So much...” He wanted it again but also he did not. Flynn gave him both options and touched him in that spot only occasionally. Wyatt made the mistake of looking down. Flynn’s eyes were dark and concentrated. His hand moved towards and away from Wyatt’s ass, and the sight brought the reality of the situation crashing back down. Wyatt clenched his eyes shut and dug his head into the pillow. “Say something,” he ordered.

“What?” It was unclear if he was asking for clarification or suggestions.

“Just... anything,” Wyatt told him, needing the distraction. “It’ll relax me. It’s too damn quiet in here. Say something, put on some music, hum, I don’t care.” Whether Flynn wanted to counter sarcasm with his own or simply did not want to move, he began humming some song Wyatt did not know. His voice was deep and melodic and seductive. It did not help filter out what awkwardness Wyatt felt. “What’d you do with my phone? I’ve got some music on it.”

Flynn sighed and pulled his hand out of Wyatt. An empty feeling was left without him. He leaned across the bed and, from the nightstand, grabbed Wyatt’s phone, recovered from his pants pocket. “Tell me what to play.”

“Put it in my hand.”

“Tell me what to play,” he repeated. Flynn was not going to give Wyatt a phone.

“There’s a playlist,” Wyatt muttered, “third or fourth one. You’ll... know it when you see it.”

Flynn knew it when he saw it. He laughed. “The... ‘Sexy Mix,’” he read with a grin. “I don’t know. Are you sure you want to use it on me?”

“Play the damn music,” Wyatt ordered. “It’s for me, not you.”

Flynn flicked his thumb over the screen, going through the list before scrolling back up and playing the top entry. “Your taste in music is horrible,” he commented.

“Yeah, and what would you play?” Wyatt asked. He imagined the pretension of classical music or something from the beginning of the twentieth century instead of at its end or after.

“Nothing you would like,” he said, “apparently.” He turned the volume all the way up and placed the phone on the mattress a couple feet from Wyatt’s head.

Flynn went back to preparing him. The same finger from before went right in with much less difficulty. He was getting used to it.

“How are we doing?” Flynn monitored after a minute. Wyatt nodded his head but did not answer verbally. He had no exact words to say. It was hardly his new favorite thing, but it was not wholly unpleasant. “Let me know when you’re ready for another.” Wyatt was in no hurry for it, and luckily Flynn was not ready to rush things either. He took one finger a few minutes longer before giving the go ahead.

“Do it. Go on. Give me another.” Flynn did not act immediately. Wyatt was too tense and anxious. It came the moment he calmed down. “Little... weirder,” he remarked, “tight... tighter.” He could feel Flynn’s fingers not wanting to fit but flexing out a space for themselves. They stretched him open. Wyatt remained moderately agreeable with no discomfort, but what he felt was a very unusual and new experience, familiar in a vulgar way and yet like nothing before.

“You’re doing well,” Flynn lauded. “Not so bad, hm?”

“No.” It was humiliating to admit that, to have Flynn speaking casually while fucking him with his fingers. Wyatt’s cheeks were red. “It’s worse though, right?” he asked, and he picked his head up to look down his body at Flynn. “The actual... sex part. Yeah?”

Flynn kissed his inner thigh. It tickled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Flynn took his middle finger out but kept the other one inside. He inserted the index finger of his other hand. The first stayed where it was, pushing up inside of Wyatt, massaging him, pleasuring him. The second finger thrust in and out and rotated. It was stimulation coupled with moving penetration. It was almost enough to be overwhelming. It was definitely too much to give his attention to one over the other. He experienced both.

“I’m tired of this,” Wyatt complained. “Can’t we just get it over with already?” The sooner it was finished, the sooner it was done. He would no longer have to lay beneath Flynn with the man inside him.

“Trust me,” Flynn said, “you’re going to want three. You are wound so very, very tightly, Wyatt.”

“Then give it to me already,” he insisted. Again, Flynn did not act immediately. He kept going with two. “You don’t think I’m ready?”

“You’re impatient,” Flynn criticized. “Concentrating... on the finish line, when it’s going to be over, but you need to focus on the race. You are a soldier, after all, a man in peak physical condition. You’ve been through training. You know what happens when you don’t,” he pulled his fingers apart, “stretch before exercise.”

Wyatt grunted. “Somehow,” he replied, “this is just... just— hmm— just a little different than you helping me with my hamstring.”

Flynn laughed. “But no less important,” he said. “Maybe... more important.” He moved his fingers in together and opened them up when they came out. “If you, for example, pulled a muscle running, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. But if something happens here,” he expressed, “it’s my fault. You’ll give me the blame. So yes, Wyatt, we will be going at my pace for now.” His fingertip joined the other two as soon as Wyatt stopped expecting it. He had one finger from one hand and two from another inside him, trying to go inside him. “Give it up, Wyatt,” he urged. “Relax. Let it happen. Come on, soldier boy. Come on.”

Wyatt breathed in and let his body loosen when he exhaled. “Tell me this gets easier.” His voice was rough in his own ears. It was strained.

“This gets easier.” It was a regurgitated assurance, but Wyatt believed him. Flynn would not set him up like that. He would not lie to win his cooperation. “You’ll be an expert in no time.”

“Never!” he growled. Short of Flynn sneaking up on him again, Wyatt had no intentions of a repeat.

Flynn kept going until he was satisfied. He no longer trusted Wyatt’s affirmations, not after knowing he was more interested in dashing to the end. It only took a few minutes until Wyatt was relaxed again, loosened and ready. It felt like Flynn’s fingers had been inside him forever, and a few of Wyatt’s songs had passed to confirm that it had been several minutes. Flynn was incredibly patient— or he liked having Wyatt beneath him. The power he got from complete control was probably better than any sexual rush.

He pulled his fingers out one at a time. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

Flynn liked that answer more. He raised up and kissed Wyatt while his hand groped around on the bedside table. He pulled back and held up the little box. “Don’t worry,” Flynn announced. “I actually brought you some condoms.”

“What a damn gentleman,” Wyatt scoffed. His sarcasm was ignored. Flynn’s attention was given to opening a condom to put on. Wyatt did not want to watch. “You gonna lie, say it won’t hurt?” he asked the far wall. “I’ve seen... it, Flynn. Had the damn thing in my hand.” Flynn was a large man, and, as Wyatt had learned, everything was proportionate to his stature.

“It’s not going to hurt,” he answered, “but there may be some... discomfort at first, less if you relax.” He was honest at least. Flynn moved in close. Wyatt let his legs be spread. There was no point in physical rebellions. They were pointless and more like a tantrum than a resistance. “Relax, Wyatt.” Flynn waited. “Relax.”

“I’m trying, damn it!” He sucked in a breath. He held it for five counts and released. Strong hands with long fingers massaged the insides of his thighs.

“The first minute is the worst,” Flynn prepared him, “but if you make it through that...”

“I can make it through anything?” Wyatt inferred.

“Well, not anything,” Flynn chuckled. “But if you’re willing to try ‘anything’ after we’re done here, I’m open to it.”

“God, stop talking and just get the hell on with it,” Wyatt groaned. He hated that he was practically asking for it.

“Just the tip first,” Flynn said. He rubbed it up against Wyatt’s skin, along his crack, over his hole but not in. “Relax.” He tried. “Relax,” Flynn said again, slower, emphasizing its meaning.

Wyatt took deep breaths and concentrated on the music. Flynn gave no warning before he started feeding his cock inside, and maybe it was better that way. Wyatt did all right. It was uncomfortable but not painful. The worst was the emotional aspect, the knowledge of what was happening to him, who was doing it to him. He had to ignore that part. He focused instead on the physical because that was not so bad. After a few seconds, he even encouraged Flynn to keep going. Then, further inside, they hit a snag.

“Ah,” Wyatt hissed. “Ow, damn it... Damn it. No. Stop.” Flynn ceased his advance, but it did not feel any better. “Out,” Wyatt demanded. “Out, pull it out.”

Flynn hesitated but obeyed. He sighed. “If you would just—”

“Tell me to relax one more time,” Wyatt dared. He would not hear the obvious and pointless advice. “Just shut up, all right? Just...” He did not want to continue, but he did not want to quit either. He was strangely determined to see it through. A few seconds for a breather and he nodded. “Okay, go.” Flynn did not believe him. “Go.” Nothing. “What do you want, an invitation? Fuck me. There you go. There’s your invitation. RSVP and get the hell on with it.”

Flynn grinned at his tenacity. “Well, if you insist.” He sat back off his knees and scooted down the bed. He grabbed Wyatt around the ankle and began untying him.

“Wh-What... What are you doing?” Wyatt was not expecting freedom, and he did not want it. He preferred hiding behind the excuse that he had little influence over what was happening. If Flynn untied him, the decision to continue became his own. It was too cruel. Not even Flynn would do that. Not even he was that evil. “I said—”

“I know what you said,” he interrupted. “I’m going to. Stop complaining.” He untied Wyatt’s other leg and got back up in his kneeling position. His hands came around the backs of Wyatt’s knees and pushed them up towards his chest. “Like this,” he suggested. “This position... it helps.”

“Oh,” Wyatt murmured, “right.” He tried to draw his legs up against himself and wished he had his hands to hold them there. Flynn helped instead. He positioned the head of his cock up against Wyatt’s asshole and pushed his legs forward as he moved back inside. “Okay. _O... kay._  Hmm.” Wyatt bit his lip.

“Better?” Flynn asked, and he waited for an answer before going too deep.

The new curve of Wyatt’s body drew his insides into a straighter passage. It was enough to make a difference. “Yeah.” The assistance, the consideration, was appreciated. “Thanks.”

“I’d tell you how good you feel,” Flynn sighed, “but I think you would try and kick me if I did.” He was not wrong.

“Not the sort of compliments I’m looking for, no.”

Flynn moved closer and pressed down, pushing Wyatt’s legs up with his weight, pinning them to his stomach, bending him in half. It was confining, but the confinement was comforting, like being held. The position itself was better for what was happening. Wyatt suffered through the first minute, and then, as Flynn told him, it did get better. He relaxed that last increment and was able to ignore what discomfort remained. Flynn went deep, all the way, and held the stance before working to his rhythm. When he began thrusting, he was gradual with it. Wyatt acquainted himself to the feeling, in and out, in... and out. It was such a warped perspective and so different from being on top. He tried not to equate himself to the role of woman. They were men, both men, and as Flynn’s words echoed in his head to say, there was nothing wrong with an alternate take on pleasure. It did feel good, mostly good, but he hated the fingers digging into the sensitive skin of his thighs.

“Wait, wait,” Wyatt interrupted. “Back up a minute.” Flynn pulled away, far enough that his cock slipped out. Wyatt lifted his legs and put one— then both— of them over Flynn’s shoulders. Women did it sometimes. There was clearly something appealing about the position. That was Wyatt’s reasoning, anyway, that and the fact he could not hold his legs himself. “Okay, go.” It was a tight position to be twisted into. Wyatt experienced a slight difficulty breathing. But when Flynn pushed in him and down on him, it was worth it. “Oh, god... yes. Just like that, you bastard.”

Flynn pulled out again to apply more lube, being overly cautious for Wyatt’s sake, and he moaned when he thrust back in. He liked the position. “Looks like... you’re... flexible after all, Wyatt.”

“Stop talking,” he asked. He did not want talking. “I ha— Fu... God. I hate your stupid accent.”

“No, you don’t,” Flynn arrogantly contradicted. It was exotic and alluring, and Wyatt hated him.

In the silence Flynn momentarily granted, Wyatt heard the slap of skin on skin from every thrust. He heard a wet sucking noise that he did not want to associate with himself. He turned his ear more towards the music.

The backs of his calves rubbed against Flynn’s shoulders with every push. It was like every repetitive exercise the army ever forced on him, but it was so much better. It was so worth it. Flynn brought his knees off the bed, putting more weight on Wyatt, bending him in half, crushing him into the mattress, and penetrating him impossibly deeper.

“God damn it!” Wyatt exclaimed, and nothing more than incoherent words and curses would come. His face was hot. Blood pumped in his ears like they needed to pop. Flynn held the position, keeping him completely filled. He leaned back, pulled out, but then he did it again, fucking Wyatt by rocking into him. It was slower when swift was wanted. “That all you got?” Wyatt quipped, goading him for the sole purpose of being contrary.

“It’s all you’re getting,” Flynn responded, keeping a level head for the sake of Wyatt’s ass. He kept going as he was, slowly, pressing down on Wyatt, then he dropped back onto his knees and went quick again. “What would you do,” Flynn asked, “if you had your hands free?”

“You’re not gonna stop if I don’t answer, are you?” Wyatt groaned. He remembered their first time too vividly.

Flynn smirked. “No.”

“Then no... no comment,” he answered. Wyatt did not know what he would do and, luckily, was not in a situation where Flynn would make him tell. He would probably— He would maybe— grab at Flynn’s arms on the outsides of his thighs. He would clench his fists around the bed sheets, grinding telltale wrinkles into them. He would definitely jerk himself off. Anything else, he was not sure about. What he did know was that he would not stop it. He would not push Flynn away or hit him, kill him. Wyatt wanted to see it through.

Flynn moved a hand around Wyatt’s leg and put it on his cock, giving it attention like he read his mind. First, he gave a little squeeze, then he began moving in frenzied strokes that did not match up with his pounding hips. He found a decent rhythm eventually. It felt amazing, dual stimulation. Wyatt embarrassed himself in praise— or he would have, if he cared to be embarrassed and if Flynn was the sort to shame him.

“Okay, yeah,” he fervently agreed. “Yeah, that’s... that’s good together. Okay. Yeah, yeah... Yes.” He did not want it to stop. “That’s good, Flynn. That’s good. Yeah. Yeah, let me have it. Mm, Flynn... Flynn...” He said the man’s name so many more times it should have been a humiliation, that reckless acknowledgement of who he was screwing— who was screwing him.

“Wish I could... drag you to the edge of the bed,” Flynn said, and he was panting as he said it. “Stand on the floor, get a better angle.” Wyatt took peace of mind in knowing that being untied was still not an option. Flynn would keep him bound from choice the entire time and only fantasize about Wyatt being free. The shameless and confined sex could be enjoyed.

Flynn fluctuated, unpredictably, between quick thrusts and several sequential longer ones that seemed to take forever. The hasty ones were easy to understand. They were about getting off as fast as possible, stimulating himself as much as possible. Wyatt could only assume the longer ones were for him, so Flynn could draw out the sensation, let Wyatt focus on what he was feeling, not just dismiss the defining in and out of sex. He made Wyatt experience it.

Moans were coming from both of them and out of sync. Wyatt, then Flynn, then Wyatt again. It was almost discordant enough to be distracting. But the distant impression of music detracted from some of it. The sex itself drew attention from the rest.

“God, I’m almost there,” Wyatt exclaimed, breathless but loud. Flynn sped up the hand beating him off. He was so close. He was going to do it. He was going to get off to Garcia Flynn giving him a handjob while fucking his ass. “So close... Come on... Come on.”

“Oh,” Flynn interrupted his own momentum to say, “you know what? I think I know this song.”

“I don’t care about that right now!” Wyatt shouted. He could barely hear his phone anymore. Flynn laughed at his exasperation and anger. He took so much pleasure from riling Wyatt up.

When Flynn pushed in, he went up with it— or forward, or down. Wyatt could hardly kept track of which direction anything was moving in. Whichever way it was, Flynn made certain to nail that spot in him, to overload him. It was so much, too much. It sought to undo him. The hand on his cock conspired alongside it. Wyatt was nearly there.

It ended when Flynn whispered to him in a deep voice, a tired rumble, a thicker accent, a permissive utterance of two words: “Let go.”

He did.

It was amazing. It was better than it had any right to be. It was better than he wanted it to be. It affected him deeper, hit him harder, than almost everything before it. Wyatt did not reach a peak so much as let go, as Flynn said, and allow a euphoria to take him. It was such a soft, mild climax to be one that shook him so greatly.

He was so preoccupied, so absolutely removed from reality, that he did not stick around to watch Flynn’s orgasm. He did not see that tormented face release its worries and strife as before. He did not see Flynn allow himself a moment within which to be carefree, to accept only release and unrestricted pleasure. Wyatt simply assumed it happened. He exploited the liberty which came from being on the bottom: everything was about him.

Wyatt came down, retaking his messier, less inebriated body. He gasped and panted, feeling himself unable to catch a full breath. He was more boneless and more exhausted than after any prior round of sex, and that included times he held Jessica up against the wall. There was no more accurate way to define Wyatt than that most crude one: he was fucked out. His arms were heavy in the bed. He could not move them even if there were no ropes. His legs were a dead weight on Flynn’s shoulder. His mind was too absent to care that he was putty in his enemy’s hands, pliable, vulnerable, defenseless.

“Shh, shh,” Flynn whispered. He pulled the sheet off the bed and reached forward to gently dab at Wyatt’s eyes. It was not the first time he cried after climaxing. It was not even the most embarrassing instance. A few swipes of the bed sheet and his eyes were dry.

Flynn let the damp material go. His hand fondly petted and stroked Wyatt’s cheek. Somehow, it was exactly what he needed and it was welcomed.

“Let’s get you down,” Flynn murmured. Wyatt barely heard him and, in fact, only made sense of the directive as it was happening. Flynn pulled out first, and Wyatt felt the first rousing of his discomfort. He hissed as Flynn withdrew and was eased through it. “Shh,” Flynn soothed. “You’re all right.” Wyatt felt empty, a concept which was his standard but was now a sensation which needed to be relearned until it felt right again. Flynn moved backwards to unfold Wyatt onto the mattress. He yanked out the pillow. He picked one heavy leg off his shoulder and brought it down. “Easy now,” he softly sighed. “Easy.” He lowered the other one, laying Wyatt out flat. Flynn moved from between his legs and to the edge of the bed.

“Wait.” One damning word and Wyatt lost any pride he had left against the man. But he felt weak, small, thoroughly emasculated, and the last thing he wanted was to be left alone. He needed a minute.

“I’m not leaving,” Flynn swore, “not yet.” He leaned back in, over Wyatt’s body, and kissed him once and then again. He spoke between pecks to Wyatt’s lips and cheek. “I just thought... you might... like a washcloth.” There was a sticky mess on Wyatt’s groin, stomach, and chest. “Doesn’t that sound nice?” It did. “You’ll rest better.”

Wyatt was not in a frame of mind to care about how clean he was. His descent into thinking and craving filth was not yet over. “It can wait.” The phrasing he chose was better than outright asking Flynn to stay, stay in bed with him. It was what he wanted. They both knew that. He would say anything except those exact words. He hoped Flynn would not make him. Wyatt did not want mind games and abuses of power. He just wanted Flynn, in bed, for one minute. That fleeting sense of dependence was to be expected after the loss of a virginity Wyatt never thought he would lose. It was understandable, was it not? It was excusable at least.

Flynn stopped kissing him but did not leave the bed. He laid at Wyatt’s side with an arm over him. Fingers moved on his skin, rubbing his arm, pushing on the muscle, idly massaging one small area. He was quiet until he talked. “How was it?” he asked, needing a more sincere opinion now that Wyatt’s mind was cleared.

“It was...” He could not articulate how he felt. There was no apprehension of Flynn being smug if he said he liked it. Wyatt’s reservations beforehand were justified, and Flynn understood them— even if he disregarded them. The fact was Wyatt enjoyed parts of it, but if the choice were his own, he would not attempt a repeat. If the choice was not his own, he would still resist it happening again. But it was good. The orgasm that came with it was great, a new high that left him positively wiped out. Wyatt gave his honest opinion. “It wasn’t... as bad as I thought it’d be.”

That was a good enough answer for Flynn. He knew Wyatt was still processing and would soon look back on the experience with interest or abhorrence.

“And just look at him, huh.” Flynn rubbed up the inside of Wyatt’s thigh with strong, warm fingers. “Got both his balls, still a man. I think... I _think_  he’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t ruin it now by talking,” Wyatt mumbled.

Flynn smiled and kissed him on the lips then down around his jaw. His nibbled, biting into what bits of flesh he could get his teeth around. He whispered in Wyatt’s ear. “Next time,” he said, “we’ll go back like before. You’re more comfortable on top.”

Wyatt shook his head, pulling it away from Flynn, rolling it on the pillow. “No next time,” he refused. “This was it. No more. We are playing with a damn fire here, and I’m not losing everything I have to mess around with you.” The music on Wyatt’s phone ended as if accentuating his point. Quiet set in, but it was less awkward after sex was finished.

“Your playlist isn’t very long,” Flynn observed. “I take it you... don’t usually make it to the end?”

“Just shut up,” Wyatt muttered. The music had never stopped itself before. What few songs he had usually did the trick. Flynn simply liked to drag everything out.

“I told you I’d take it slow,” he replied, saying it like a brag. “Just what you wanted from your first time, hm?”

“And what about you?” Wyatt inquired, asking it for the sake of passing curiosity, for grins and giggles. “You with your first time... with a guy, what the hell was that like?”

“Looking to compare notes?” Flynn was convinced he showed Wyatt a good time and was not interested in analyzing areas in which he could have done better.

“Humor me.”

“Oh,” he sighed, “I think you can guess. It’s about as predictable as your first time with a woman.”

“Okay,” Wyatt considered, accepting the challenge. “You were... in college?” Flynn’s lips pursed together and he nodded, confirming that so far was good. “You were drunk. He was drunk. Neither of you knew what in the hell you were doing.” A smile and a nod. “Probably didn’t feel great.”

“Not at first.”

“Probably sore after.”

“Just for a day or so.”

“Ruined whatever relationship you had.”

Flynn shrugged. “He was not exactly my best friend, so I didn’t exactly care.”

“Nice to know you can be predictable after all.” It was humanizing to hear Flynn still behaved like any other person. His present actions, his insanities, often alienated him from the great hoard of humanity, but beneath that he was a man.

“Less so now,” he reminded. “And of course, because of that, you have your own unique story, don’t you? No one is going to guess your first time anymore.”

“First and only,” Wyatt reiterated. He shifted to a more comfortable position and groaned until he settled. “God, even my abs are sore,” he complained. With a crunched stomach, squatting legs, and futile flexing from his arms, he was going to be feeling his all body workout for a few days.

Flynn gradually pulled himself from Wyatt’s side and was permitted to leave. “I’ll be right back,” he said. Then, teasingly, he added, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Like I could,” Wyatt scoffed. His legs were free, but his feet could not untie the complicated knots around his wrists.

Flynn grabbed his clothes and shut the bathroom door behind him. He was gone for a few minutes. When he returned, he was not fully dressed, but he had on his boxers and undershirt. His hair was brushed off his face. One of his hands held a rag. The other was a closed fist. He knelt on the bed and held it over Wyatt’s mouth. “For the muscle pain,” he explained. Wyatt accepted the pills taken from his own medicine cabinet. Flynn grabbed the glass of water left unfinished from before. Wyatt swallowed them down.

“Thanks,” he said when Flynn lifted the glass off his lips.

“Best to head it off at the beginning,” he advised.

Flynn used the damp rag to wipe the ejaculate off Wyatt’s abdomen but did not bother with the rest of his body. It was not like the first time where he had to redress Wyatt, make him presentable. Now, Wyatt could lay there in a sheen of sweat, letting it air dry or soak into the sheet. Flynn finished and threw his washcloth in the floor.

“So how’s it end this time?” Wyatt questioned. “You kill me, you let me go, you leave me tied to the bed, what?”

Flynn laid on the mattress and exhaled as he went down, as if deflating of air. “I haven’t decided yet.” He rested his arm on Wyatt’s pillow and languidly picked at his hair. Wyatt pulled his head away, but when Flynn pursued him, he gave up. It took too much effort to resist the harmless gesture. He let the man finger his hair and caress his scalp. It was almost normal and affectionate.

“Didn’t take you for a cuddle-bug,” Wyatt remarked, saying it simply to ridicule how absurd it was.

“Oh, I’m many things,” Flynn claimed. He rolled onto his side and raised up on his arm to look down at Wyatt. He looked at him. He kissed him. Wyatt kissed back. It was allowed. They could do that until their little encounter was ended. Then everything went back to normal.

Flynn climbed onto Wyatt and knelt over his abdomen. He kissed and held his face. He held it with both hands. Wyatt became hyperaware of his bindings once more when he tried to move his hands and touch in return. “Untie me,” he asked against Flynn’s lips. He wanted his hands on Flynn’s face, in his hair, against his body. They had shore leave from common sense a little while longer. Why not exploit the hell out of it?

“No,” Flynn denied him. He rightfully feared deception. Fondling hands turned to choking hands with only a few more pounds of pressure.

“Come on.” Wyatt kissed. “You gotta let me go eventually.” Flynn was not going to kill him. He was not going to leave him tied up naked for someone else to find. They already knew how it ended. “Let me touch you. Come on, Flynn.” They kissed and Wyatt bit his lip. “Garcia,” he whispered against the flesh in his teeth. Using his first name had no outstanding effect, but it was Flynn’s final straw against slipping conviction. He was crazy enough to take big risks like untying Wyatt after sex. And he did.

Flynn pulled away. He ceased what they were doing long enough to undo the expert knot around each wrist. Wyatt was up as soon as the second rope hit the sheets. He grabbed either side of Flynn’s face and resumed kissing him. He laid back against the bed and pulled the man down over him. It was insanity. It was hot.

“Garcia,” Wyatt called again, utilizing the name now that he knew it affected the man. “Mm, Garcia...” Flynn was too stoic, too difficult to fluster, but his name forced familiarity in a way that was almost reckless. Wyatt liked provoking him though. It was Flynn’s turn for once. “Garcia.” The name gave Flynn pause every time. He faltered in action. It gave Wyatt the chance to show some initiative.

He kissed down Flynn’s strong neck, so much thicker and more muscular than a woman’s. His tongue licked over the dragging, two-inch scar of the bullet wound he gave the man. He almost killed Flynn. He came so close. Had he succeeded, they would not be where they were now, in bed together. Wyatt would not know unfortunate and abhorred details about himself. The emotion that came with that knowledge was regret at having failed his mission or shame for letting things go so far. There were no positive feelings from associating with Flynn, only physical pleasures.

“Trying to reopen it with your mouth?” Flynn questioned. He knew Wyatt’s mind and discerned its guilt. The comment felt like mockery, though Wyatt’s mind surely exaggerated its intent.

He tried to roll them over so he was on top, but Flynn fought the idea and pushed him down onto his back again. Retaliation died quickly after the token struggle. Wyatt permitted the continuation of their position. They kissed.

Flynn moved against him as if in another round of sex. His long, hard frame pressed down in long, soft thrusts with no aim beyond rubbing their two bodies together. Wyatt rolled his naked skin up against the cotton of Flynn’s boxers. It was slow. It was sensual. Flynn pushed and pulled his body against him as a means of doting physical contact, not explicit release. He wanted to touch and to connect with another human. Wyatt did too.

They were lonely.

Flynn slowed down before it led to something. He stopped. He was nothing but a weight. Their lips touched and drew apart. They inserted longer intervals between kisses as they wound down. Flynn brushed his hand over Wyatt’s hair and looked into his eyes. They stared. Wyatt turned away first, unable to keep looking at the man, the enemy, he had sex with. He felt vulnerable and knew that withdrawal made him more so. He did not care.

“Off,” he said under his breath. They were done.

Obedient to the command, Flynn removed himself from Wyatt. But he kissed him one final time before slinking into the mattress. It was long. It was returned. Flynn drew away and laid down.

They barely fit in Wyatt’s bed, side by side and on their backs like they were. Their arms rubbed. Wyatt put his on top. Flynn covered him again. It would be immature to keep the quarrel alive. Wyatt was too tired to act childish.

They were done. It was over. Sex was through, and Wyatt was free. There was no purpose remaining. Flynn was simply dragging out the time until he left. Wyatt dawdled in his command that Flynn go. So they laid there, side by side, staring at the ceiling.

Flynn inhaled deeply, contentedly, and spoke when he exhaled. “That was good.”

“I think it was better for you,” Wyatt murmured. It was a lie. He took pleasure from the entire affair, start to finish, with only a few hiccups in between. That was the problem. He felt regret, and it was not even the morning after yet.

Flynn refused to try and make him feel better about the situation. That was not their relationship, and he would not bend over backwards every time Wyatt’s mood changed. He ignored the guilt-ridden cynicism.

“I haven’t smoked in nearly eight years,” he said, “not since my wife found out she was pregnant. Happiest day of my life, Wyatt. Happiest day, uncontested.” His tone was joyful and excited at the mere memory. Wyatt did not have to look to see the smile. “It does... sound good right now though, after sex, a cigarette.” He laughed. “It _looks_  good every time we go into the past. They make it look so normal. It was normal, of course, standard. It’s unhealthy though. It is. It is. I stopped and started so many times until I finally quit. Sometimes we just... need a reason bigger than ourselves... to do the things we can’t.”

“Is that how you do it?” Wyatt asked, questioning Flynn’s resolve. “Is that how you do all of it, with your greater good crap?”

“Of course.” He made it sound so simple and obvious. It was a burden. It was a responsibility. Flynn thought he operated in service of others. Wyatt would never convince him any differently.

It was quiet in the afterglow. There was nothing but their breathing, and it became less urgent and excessive by the minute. Wyatt glanced at Flynn without turning his head, observing what he could from the corner of his eye. He was attractive, and Wyatt could safely admit that to himself. Flynn’s face was cast in profile as he watched the ceiling. He was so not what Wyatt was used to. There were so many angles in his face that caught the low light of the room, masculinizing him further. His short hair fell in his eyes without product to sculpt it. He had those deep laugh lines around his mouth like someone who used to smile a lot. More recently, he had affected a line between his brows from frowning. There was short stubble around his lip and on his jaw that never seemed to go away, and it remained one of the more unnatural aspects of a kiss. His thick neck disappeared into the shirt he wore. Aesthetically, Flynn’s body was nice— all those long limbs and features, still in good shape. Wyatt wanted to touch him again, going until it felt more ordinary, until he could better wrap his head around it, but that part of the evening was finished.

There was a line on the outside of Flynn’s arm, a scar that overcompensated in its healing and had become a mound of raised and twisted flesh. The wound was impressive and no doubt painful when it tore through muscle. “Where’s that one from?” Wyatt asked, expecting a reply of, ‘Classified,’ pertaining to Flynn’s days in the NSA.

“It’s from... that night,” he said instead. “Rittenhouse... I was shot... five times. I limped from the house... to my car holding... myself together with one hand. Firing my... gun with the other.” He pulled up his shirt. There were two holes in his abdomen. Wyatt had noticed them before, but now they had a story. He raised his leg off the bed and there was another scar on his thigh below the hem of his boxers. Through and through the bullet went. “And another one on my right forearm. I suppose... I assume... they were trying to shoot the gun out of my hand.”

“So when you said you barely made it out of there alive...” He was not kidding.

“Yes,” Flynn said, “I’ve... been in enough life and death situations not to exaggerate one, not this one. If it were... anything less, I wouldn’t have fled. I would have stayed in the house, killed them all, not... let them frame me for what they did.”

“I believe you, ya know.” Wyatt was not certain when exactly his opinion changed. He had doubted, and now he was convinced. The trip between those outlooks was gradual or instantaneous but unnoticed either way. “I know you didn’t kill them, your family. What you said happened that night, Rittenhouse... I buy it.”

“I don’t need your validation,” Flynn scoffed.

“No,” Wyatt recognized. Support and trust or hatred and skepticism, they affected Flynn’s mission in no way. “But you need an ally, someone who believes you.”

Flynn’s tone was more wary than optimistic. “And are you... that?”

He was not. “Okay, maybe ‘ally’ is too strong a word,” he recanted. “But if you’re captured, taken alive, if me or somebody arrests you, maybe I’ll be the one to speak in your favor, get that charge removed, the one about your wife and daughter. You’re on your own for the rest.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Flynn said. He was grateful for the kindness but would understand its absence when the moment came for it to present.

“You loved them,” Wyatt said. “It’s not fair if you go down for their murders. It’s not right.” Flynn was accurate in what he had said before: Wyatt was lucky to escape being a suspect in Jessica’s murder.

“Little soldier with a heart of gold, hm?” Flynn laughed. “The testimony of the celebrated Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, my... esteemed character witness. You’re naïve if you think it would change anything.”

“Screw you. I was trying to help.”

“I’m not looking to plead innocent,” he stated. “I’m going to erase the crime all together, kill their killers before it happens.” Wyatt did not want another lecture on Flynn’s motives, but what tirade there was died quickly, being aware of its redundancy. “If I fail...” He sighed. “It would be... appreciated, Wyatt, but don’t say anything on my behalf. They would question your conclusion and, uh, how you got it.”

“Yeah, and ‘in bed’ isn’t really the best answer.” It was the absolute worst answer.

“If you want to say it,” Flynn joked, “I won’t stop you. I’d like to watch.” He rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. He looked down at Wyatt. “I wonder...” He smiled. “Have you told your little team about us yet?” Flynn was genuinely curious, though he knew the answer. The inquiry itself was a mocking joke.

Wyatt snorted. “No.” There was no good explanation for sleeping with Flynn, let alone not killing him. At the time, at every fork in the road, it seemed a natural process from where they started to where they ended up, something Wyatt had no control over. He was a victim. He could not explain how it happened. And if Lucy or Rufus could not keep the scandal, the betrayal, of it to themselves, Wyatt would be lucky to be fired, dishonorably discharged. He would more likely be labeled as one of Flynn’s latest accomplices— and charged with aiding and abetting.

“I could tell them,” Flynn offered. It was evil. “I’ll rip the bandage off. I know how the three of you are about no secrets coming between you.”

“They wouldn’t believe you.” The entirety of the situation was so outlandish, Wyatt barely believed it himself sometimes. Hearing it secondhand was too farfetched a concept.

“My words,” Flynn concurred, “no. No one would believe that. The picture I took before you woke up... slightly more convincing.” Wyatt glared at him, disgusted by such an invasion of his privacy. “Don’t look at me like that,” Flynn scoffed. “I didn’t take it for the purpose of blackmail. I thought... a memento, something to look back on, might be nice, in case this really does turn out to be our grand farewell.”

“Delete it,” Wyatt growled.

“No.” It was Flynn’s property now, won through wicked means. “No, I think I’ll hold onto it.”

“Don’t... tell them,” Wyatt spoke, now requesting, now afraid. He knew Flynn had no qualms against spilling someone else’s secrets. He had watched Lucy’s helplessness as Flynn revealed their private communications. The man had nothing to lose. Wyatt had everything. “Please.”

Flynn delighted in the sound of that. Presented as its own form of entertainment, he watched Wyatt fear the possibility of his world falling apart. “Say it again,” he ordered.

“Don’t tell them,” Wyatt said, “please.” Then he repeated the last word over and over, knowing his desperate, submissive appeal was what Flynn most wanted to hear. “Please... please, please, Flynn. Please.” He said it until he was permitted to stop.

“That’s enough.” Flynn owned him. Wyatt realized he was tethered to the man’s whim by a threat, by blackmail. Flynn watched him with a distracted gaze, being too caught up in the mechanics of his mind. He was at a crossroads. There was a choice in front of him: be a decent man or be the villain Wyatt imagined he was. He made a decision. “I won’t abuse it.” He gave tentative mercy.

Wyatt wanted to trust him. He let the subject go. He had no more meek words and feared that, if pressed, he would embrace his anger until a physical altercation was begun.

Flynn waited for the retaliation that did not come. He relaxed when he realized his verdict was where they were leaving it. His hand hovered above Wyatt’s chest, wanting to touch and fondle but abandoning the urge.

The obvious was finally addressed.

“I have to go,” Flynn whispered. He sounded reluctant to do so. He sounded tired, like he wanted to stay in bed and sleep for a week.

“Right.” Wyatt sat up and took a big breath in that he held for a second. He exhaled through puckered lips. “You got a long trip back to... Where was that again?”

Flynn chuckled. He winked. “Nice try.” He would not disclose the location of his new hideout quite so easily.

Wyatt was strategically mum on the fact that Jiya and Rufus had already narrowed it down to a fifty mile radius around Mexico City. He did not mention that the area was being searched. And he kept himself from warning the man that he should not remain in one place for too long. Flynn was the enemy, a terrorist, and it would not do to compromise any of that intel.

Wyatt moved to the edge of the bed and brought his feet around to touch the floor. “My ass hurts,” he complained. It was very apparent when he sat, but he was done with laying down for the moment.

Flynn crawled across the bed. He came behind Wyatt and kissed beneath his ear then followed his hairline around to the back of his neck. “Wish I could,” he kissed the top of his spine, “stick around... let you pay me back.” It sounded good, if exhausting. Throw common sense out the window and go at each other all night. “But I can’t,” he mumbled against Wyatt’s shoulder blade. He kissed his skin one more time before pulling back and jumping across the bed.

Flynn opened Wyatt’s nightstand drawer and put the leftover condoms and lube inside before closing it back. “Presumptuous,” Wyatt remarked. Flynn assumed he would have a future need of them.

“Use them how you like,” he said. “Waste not, yes?” As Flynn closed the drawer, he told Wyatt, “I removed your backup weapon, by the way, in case you felt like pulling it out of this drawer here and pointing it at my back when I left.” Wyatt frowned. The last thing he wanted was a gun registered in his name in the hands of a known killer. He would have no good explanation when he reported Flynn taking it from him. “It’s in the kitchen,” the man went on to say, minimizing some of Wyatt’s fears, “in a cabinet. But I’m not going to tell you which one. Well,” he grinned, “it’s... multiple ones actually. I disassembled it.” Wyatt would spend longer searching for and reassembling his gun than Flynn would use for his exit.

Flynn got out of bed. He walked into the bathroom, and Wyatt could see him through the open doorway as he slipped on his pants. He sat on the toilet to put on his socks and shoes. When he donned his shirt, he walked into the slightly less cramped living area to button it. Wyatt sat on the bed, watching him. The entire scene was surreal.

“If I... don’t move to a new place,” he asked, “you gonna come back here and cut my throat some night?”

“I might return... late one night,” Flynn told him, “if I happen to be in the area.” He smirked as he folded his shirt collar down. “But I won’t bring a knife.” His loaded shoulder holster was wrapped in his jacket, and he put it on first. “Are you,” he cautiously inquired, “open to a... standing arrangement, soldier boy?” He used Wyatt’s position to remind exactly how ill-advised such a suggestion was.

“It, uh...” Wyatt rubbed a hand over his face. He sighed. “Enemies with benefits,” he said, “I’ll never get it with less strings attached than that, huh?” The sex was good. No chance at commitment was better.

Flynn shrugged. “Strings of a different sort,” he claimed. “More like red tape.” He put on his jacket and was obsessive with its placement, adjusting it to delay his exit. “A relationship, however, a... romantic one,” he shook his head, “definitely not.” Its impossibility as an option was a powerful relief. “You don’t want that,” Flynn knew. “You don’t want to move on from Jessica, find someone else. This is that, Wyatt. No relationship, just sex.” It was all he ever called what they did. Since the very beginning, it was only about sex, about getting off for a little stress relief. It was what he promised now. It was all he promised. “No dinners, no dating, no... commitments.”

“I’m supposed to kill you,” Wyatt reminded them both.

“Kill me when they order you to,” Flynn proposed. “You are enlisted, but you do still have time off the clock, yes? They can’t take that away.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think sleeping with the mission in my off hours is something they’d approve of.”

Wyatt knew he should fight the man, subdue him, make up some story for why Flynn was in his apartment. However, current lethargy and reluctance aside, Wyatt also knew he would lose the fight for another reason. Flynn was armed. And while the atmosphere between them was tolerable, Flynn was no doubt expecting opposition before he left. That gun would be trained right at Wyatt’s chest before he got in the first punch. Then the aim of the barrel would shift to his arm or his leg. Flynn’s parting gift would be a nonlethal bullet, just enough to slow him down.

“C’mere.” Wyatt called Flynn to the side of the bed, in front of him, and, surprisingly, he went.

“Yes?”

Wyatt took an initiative and raised his hands up to put on Flynn’s chest. He closed his fists around the shirt’s material and dragged the man down. One more kiss. Flynn was receptive. His hands moved to the back of Wyatt’s neck and on his head. There was no telling what horrible state Wyatt’s hair was in that Flynn continued to defile. Wyatt opened his hands and smoothed them over Flynn’s chest and up over his collarbone. He pushed Flynn’s jacket down his shoulders and arms, almost undressing him again. His enthusiasm was well received. Flynn stuck his tongue in his mouth, and Wyatt pushed against it with his own. His hands rubbed over Flynn’s too flat chest, a man’s chest, and massaged in circles that worked outwards to his sides. Wyatt’s hand rested feather light on the gun in Flynn’s holster. His fingers flicked over the snap that secured it. He was about to pop it open when a strong hand came down and pinched his groping fingers. Flynn continued kissing Wyatt as he bent his index finger, threatening to snap it. The hiss of pain ended their intimacy.

“I’m impressed,” Flynn confessed in a whisper, brushing his lips against Wyatt’s with every puckered syllable. “But not astounded.” He kissed him intentionally and pulled away. He shrugged his shoulders back into his jacket. “You think I don’t follow my own advice about keeping my guard up?”

“Eh, I was hoping,” Wyatt said, pretending the loss did not faze him. It amused Flynn. He smiled.

“I like you, Wyatt.” He did, and that should have been worrisome. “I do wish,” he kissed his cheek, “I could stay the rest of the night, see what we get up to together.”

Wyatt almost encouraged the suggestion. He was not after the promise of sex, but being near Flynn gave him more chances to come to his senses and capture the man. It also provided a very practical distraction. If Flynn was with him, he was not out terrorizing the world. Wyatt could almost take that bullet for humanity. “You should go.” He could almost do it.

“Yes,” Flynn agreed. He did not want to, but he knew he needed to. “Wyatt, it has been very much fun, but I have somewhere to be.” He looked at his watch. “I will, however, give you six hours to shower and recover. You should receive a call to come into work around that time.”

Wyatt looked at the clock beside his bed. He could take a nap, get some rest in before the four o’ clock call of duty. “Yeah, thanks for the warning.”

“I won’t go easy on you.”

“Shoot to kill,” Wyatt encouraged. He would do the same. He was almost certain he would do the same.

Flynn moved to the door and put his hand on the knob but did not twist it. He sighed until he was out of breath. He made a decision. “You’re making me soft,” he resented. From his pocket he took out his phone. He scrolled through several screens before holding it up to be viewed. The exact image on the display could not be made out from across the room, but with the vibrant skin tones and dark green walls, Wyatt assumed it was the picture Flynn took of him. It disappeared. “There,” he said, “deleted.”

“I’d say ‘thank you,’” Wyatt scoffed, “but it’s really just you being less of a bastard than you could be.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he replied, expression smug and seated in arrogance. “Or maybe I prefer it this way. When I come back— if... if I come back— you won’t be able to claim persuasion, Wyatt. You’ll sleep with me because it’s what you want, no excuses, no... hiding behind an allegation of force. Well,” he smirked, “no more than this time anyway.”

“You tied me to a bed,” Wyatt stated. “What choice did I have again?”

“Oh,” he shrugged, “your mouth. I never gagged you. You had your voice. You have... neighbors, very close neighbors on the other side of very thin walls. You could have screamed. ‘Help, help!’” he demonstrated. “‘A fugitive sociopath has me prisoner.’” He laughed. “All of your... resistance, Wyatt, was for show. I’m assuming that’s also why you were going to let me keep the photo without much fight: an excuse. And I let you have it. I did. I’m a good guy like that.”

Against the claim, Wyatt had no defense. Flynn was right, and only in that moment did Wyatt realize it was true. He had not exhausted every means of escape. In fact, there were probably a few more he could have tried. Sincerely begging Flynn outright was one of them. The man had enough conscience left over he might have listened. Wyatt fought and then he yielded. He let it happen. He loathed Flynn for not letting him have ignorance. And to him and his cruel revelations, Wyatt could only ask, “Why do you have to ruin everything?”

Flynn was serious, not egotistical, when he responded. “You need to hate me.” It was important for both their sakes that the line never be crossed. “Don’t stop.”

“I hate you.” It was the truth, and there was no confusion in that.

“Good.” Flynn would have it no other way. “Because, Wyatt, you seem the type to get confused over our... little meetings. Eventually, against your own wishes, you will attempt to justify me in your life. But if you’re not with me... you are against me, opposing sides. Hate will keep us there. So,” he insisted, “hate me. Do. And I’ll give you everything you’ll ever need to make it easy.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt muttered, “you’re just chock full of goodwill, aren’t you?”

Flynn took one step back and another before he turned and navigated around furniture in the cramped walkway. He stood in front of the door. “Come with me,” he offered again, same as last time. He faced Wyatt and used both hands to gesture while he spoke. “They’ll be so preoccupied attempting to track you down, then... finding and briefing your replacement, we could _actually_  accomplish something for once.” In his proposal, Wyatt sounded more like a strategy against the opposing team than an asset to Flynn’s.

“There’s no we,” he said. “And my answer stands.” It still sounded so tempting. It still sounded so extreme and dooming. If Wyatt ever said yes to Flynn, there was no coming back. He knew that.

“Suit yourself.” Flynn’s eyes were pointed at the floor when he nodded his head. “Good night then.” He attempted to leave once more.

“Hey, Flynn,” Wyatt called. He stopped and looked at him. “I don’t kiss smokers.” It was awkward to substantiate any possibility of future intimacy between them. “So maybe, ya know, don’t... buy a pack when we go back— or a... pipe.” He had no idea how far into the past they were traveling. “Do I at least get a hint about where we’re going? When? Tell me I earned that.”

Flynn smiled at his attempt to gain advantage but did not honor it. “You’ll look good in a hat,” was all he said. He opened the door, he puckered his lips in an air kiss to Wyatt, and he left.

“Lunatic,” Wyatt muttered. He fell back against the mattress to lay for just a few more minutes before he showered. “And what’s that make you for sleeping with him?” He had no answer for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus they continued, having progressively more casual sex until... I don’t know. Rittenhouse finds out or something. And there are pictures. Then Wyatt’s sort of forced to go to jail or join Flynn in erasing Rittenhouse and changing the present. Come back to a time when neither of them are fugitives. Sure.
> 
> I’ll just leave it all up to speculation. No more. No. No matter... how fun it would be to write something in the Benedict Arnold episode where the team is stuck with Flynn for however many days... Wyatt hesitating to shoot him and then working together with him. Being upset when he finds out Flynn knew Jessica’s killer but waited to use it as leverage... Them making out in one of those old houses when no one is around, when Lucy and Rufus are just a few rooms away. Dry... humping up against the wall... Mm. Basically that. Haha. I joke, but really I’m not writing any more. This fic is long and pointless enough. No... more... 
> 
> Okay, one more! If... anyone is interested in that? Maybe? Maybe... not?
> 
> Also, btw, Goran said in an interview that he doesn’t think Flynn ever smoked, but... eh. Felt like something nice to throw in. My opinion can differ from Goran’s until such a time canon cares enough to prove me wrong.
> 
> PS: I love comments~ They let me know if you guys enjoyed the fic.


	4. Untied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more. But this really is the last one. After this, the dynamic they’re working towards in this fic would be upset by Flynn kidnapping Lucy and then... trying to have Wyatt killed. Again. So... this really is the end.
> 
> I’m not especially in love with this ship. I don’t know why I keep writing for it. lol. But it is fun. Go where the ideas take you.
> 
> It does make sense to include something like this though, to finish the fic off. No handcuffs. No rope. All hands. We’ve finally come full circle to consensual.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to uglybusiness. Because sometimes comments are the only thing that inspire me to write (and especially to share), and uglybusiness has given me really great ones on every chapter. So you can thank them for this one because it wouldn’t exist otherwise. ♥ And do go look at the fantastic edit they made for this fic!

“Where are you going?”

Wyatt looked down the hallway Flynn was taking, then he turned back to Lucy and Rufus in Benedict Arnold’s dining room. He stood in the open doorway, teetering between the two areas.

“Talk to Flynn,” he answered Lucy.

“Wyatt,” she warned.

“I’m not gonna kill him,” he swore, perturbed that Lucy was so ready to defend the bastard. “Just talk. You read your... journal.” She gripped the torn pages Flynn had given her and glanced down at her own handwriting. “Rufus, you stay with Lucy. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” That would hopefully ensure neither of them followed behind and listened in on the very private conversation about to take place.

Wyatt put both his feet in the hall and traced the path he saw Flynn take, probably to secure some last minute provisions for their mission. He peeked inside each open doorway. At the end of the long hall was some pointless office or sitting room, one of a half-dozen. Flynn was standing just inside with his hand on the door.

“Get in,” he ordered. Wyatt obeyed but did so wearing a very irritated scowl. Flynn shut the heavy wooden door behind him. “That didn’t take very long.”

“You knew I’d come.”

“You’re easy to read,” Flynn remarked. He spoke too soon and too arrogantly in his assessment. If Wyatt’s fist was predictable, its timing was not. Flynn was caught off guard just long enough for Wyatt to grab him by the silly necktie and drag his large form up onto the wall. He slammed Flynn against it and the man’s head knocked hard on solid wood. Before he could react, Wyatt shoved his forearm up against Flynn’s throat, choking just enough to be disorienting. There was a gun in Wyatt’s pocket and in Flynn’s. Neither was used. There were strong hands hanging on either side of Flynn’s thighs. Neither was used.

“You son of a bitch,” Wyatt growled at him. “How long have you known?”

Flynn swallowed and his throat tried to expand against Wyatt’s arm, begging for a little more freedom but receiving none. “Long enough,” he rasped.

The timeline was vague, and yet it was clear he had multiple opportunities in which he could have shared the information. He waited until disclosure benefited him. Wyatt pulled back the pressure of his arm. Flynn opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a hard gut punch made him grunt and wheeze. He tried to double over and cradle his stomach, but Wyatt’s forearm pushed back against his neck, forcing him to stay on the wall.

“What?” Flynn said. “Was I supposed to pay you with it, like a whore?”

“It’s not the same thing you and you _know it_!” Wyatt spat.

“If you recall, I tried to get you to join me,” Flynn said, “twice. Your wife’s killer would have been your reward but not a bribe. I didn’t need you that badly, but now... I do.” Flynn could risk purchasing Wyatt’s loyalty for a short run but not a long one. He would have sat on the information forever until Wyatt was necessary or enlisted. “I need you, but it’s always a damn two-way street with us, isn’t it? So don’t cite past intimacy at me as a reason to give you the name,” Flynn argued, “not when it wouldn’t have gotten you to cooperate with me either.” They had sex. They did not owe each other anything because of it. “I needed something from you, something I couldn’t take.” His vicious grin made sex between them sound like such an easy thing to steal. “I need Lucy. She won’t come without you and Rufus. So... you go along with this,” he promised, “you get Lucy on board, the name is yours. Jessica’s killer is yours. It’s an exchange, Wyatt, an honest exchange. Have I lied to you yet?”

Flynn was honest where it counted. It made him a trustworthy snake.

“Fine,” Wyatt relented. He would play along, following where Flynn led for even the barest chance at finding Jessica’s killer. “But us, this... thing, it’s through.” It felt good to say, like a weight was lifted. He was not committing any more unspeakable acts with Garcia Flynn.

“Is that so?” Flynn challenged. He was unconvinced. It escaped neither of their notice that, of three rounds together, two were out of Wyatt’s control to begin with. To end with, he had enjoyed himself more than was appropriate. There was no reason to believe Flynn would not tie him up at some future date and force pleasure on him again. Wyatt only made it sound like he had a choice.

“Yes.” He said his answer slowly, dragging it out to emphasize his sincerity.

“Well then,” Flynn permitted, “if you’re really that certain, I suppose... we’re done.” He was casual and indifferent to the decision, unfazed by Wyatt ending their brief stint together. He nodded his eyes at the arm still on his throat. “If you don’t mind...”

Wyatt pulled away. He took a step back and let his arm drop to his side. His eyes left Flynn just long enough to look at the door. He did not have the time to finish saying, “We should get back,” before the man was grabbing handfuls of his jacket and throwing him up against the wall. Wyatt pulled on the arms and hands holding him, but they would not let go. They raised up until his shirt collar caught on his chin. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, trying to be quiet, trying not to shout and invite company.

“I said we were done,” Flynn repeated, “ _if_... you’re certain. So before we make any... rash decisions, I want to try something.”

“It’ll be the last thing you ever try,” Wyatt threatened. He pulled on the fists securing him. He scratched them. He squeezed them. Flynn tightened his grip. He would not let go until his point was made.

“There’s no reason we can’t.”

“I hate you,” Wyatt offered.

“Never stopped us before,” Flynn pointed out.

“You can’t really think we’re gonna...” The man had some nerve, some powerful audacity.

“Think about it,” Flynn illustrated. “We’re going into enemy territory undercover. No side of any war in any time has ever looked kindly upon spies. It’s dangerous. We might not make it back.”

“And you wanna go out with a bang?” Wyatt assumed. “What, one last round of sex just in case it’s our last?”

“No,” he said, “I want to live. I plan to live. Which is why,” he rationalized, “it might be nice to... clear our heads, unwind a bit. It’s me and you, Wyatt. If everything goes to hell, it’s on our shoulders to get us all back out. It’s two people defending four. Because we certainly can’t count on Rufus or Lucy, no. So,” he said again, proposing it one last time before Wyatt swept the suggestion off the table, “what do you say, huh? A little... stress relief before the big finale. A little fun between friends, between... between allies.” He leaned in. His face was little more than an inch from Wyatt’s. His breath rolled over his skin. He was so close. He did not kiss. “But only... if... you want to.” Flynn made certain to leave the final choice up to Wyatt. If they were done, as stated, they would have his answer of absolute certainty against it ever happening again. But if there was at least one last go in them, he would start it. He would admit he wanted it, and they would fool around under the flimsy excuse of relieving tension.

They waited for Wyatt’s signal: shove Flynn away or close the gap.

They waited.

And waited.

What the hell.

He kissed Flynn and it commenced.

Wyatt was restrained a few seconds longer— just enough to ensure it was not a manipulative strategy— and then Flynn let go of his clothes. He put one hand behind Wyatt’s neck and the other against his back to pull him closer. Wyatt went. He clutched and messed Flynn’s hair, taking devious pleasure in wrecking such coiffed perfection. He moved his lips against the man’s, feeling that prickle of stubble to which he might never fully adjust. His mouth opened, and the kiss turned deeper, wetter. It was quick and aggressive as they tried to shove a set amount of intimacy into their small window of time. Flynn pushed him onto the wall. His body pulled back and was returned. He moved up against Wyatt. The motion was emulated. They gyrated their hips together still fully clothed, and while Wyatt was not hard just yet, he knew he would be. They did not have the time for his dick to make up its mind.

It was such a rush of a mistake, going too quickly for Wyatt to orient himself. It was very similar to falling while upside down and with his eyes closed. Flynn had a certain effect on his inhibitions or, hell, just his general sanity. It was addictive in the same way as drugs or alcohol: partaken while operating under the full knowledge that it was bad for you. The clarity Wyatt felt afterwards always disappeared when temptation blared again.

Flynn’s mouth drifted along his cheek and jaw, and Wyatt could finally talk. Unfortunately, he did not say words of deprecation or an order to cease. “God, I wanna bend your smug ass over, right here, right now,” he spoke into the heated air. He moved his hand down to Flynn’s shoulder, holding onto him as he was set upon by those amorous lips.

“I have what we’d need,” Flynn said. He kissed Wyatt’s neck, wisely abstaining from leaving another hickey. “You’re not catching me unprepared again, little soldier boy.” Wyatt pulled away to look at him, intrigued that Flynn had taken to carrying condoms and lube everywhere he went on the off chance they ran into each other and lost control of their senses. Flynn was always ready for him. It was a bold and obscene manner of preparedness. It was hot. “But,” he went on, “it would take too long. We don’t want your... friends to come looking for us.”

“No,” Wyatt said, and he was in absolute agreement of the rationalization, if disappointed by it.

“So,” Flynn replied, “how about we just...” He put his hand over Wyatt’s crotch and pushed up, holding his balls through the thick cotton of his costume pants.

Wyatt nodded. “Third best thing,” he said. The second was, of course, Flynn’s sinful mouth, but Wyatt could not suggest that without concern of Flynn asking the favor be returned. Wyatt told himself that would never happen in a million years, be they within the regular flow of time or imposed by a time machine. He pushed himself further into Flynn’s hand and the man laughed.

“If you want, you have to give, Wyatt,” he said. He kept his hand still.

Wyatt’s fingers flexed against Flynn’s shoulder. His hand traveled Flynn’s arm all the way down to his wrist, right beside where the man was holding him. He let go and his hand hovered in front of Flynn’s crotch, not touching. It was still a very odd situation to be in. Flynn could caress him, grope him. Sometimes it was different, but overall it was similar to pleasure from a woman. Wyatt had only touched him back the one time. He was not used to it yet. His fingers flexed again, curling in and out.

Slowly, Wyatt put his hand against the low seam of Flynn’s silly colonial pants. He pushed up into the slack material until he felt the outline of the man’s dick and balls. “Still weird,” he made a point to say.

Flynn ignored the protest. It was only a verbal obligation that Wyatt say it, and it did nothing to counteract the reciprocity of his fondling palm. Wyatt pulled his hand down Flynn’s length, touching him through the fabric. He pushed back up and rubbed, stroking Flynn to get him off.

“No, no, no,” Flynn stopped him, derailing Wyatt’s intended plan to do it all through their pants and with limited skin contact. “Too hard to find a change of clothes in this era.” They could obtain more, but they would walk around uncomfortably until they did. And, of course, Lucy and Rufus would undoubtedly have questions about it.

Wyatt had to agree with the point. “So we just—” Flynn took his hand back and began unbuttoning his pants. “And you are. Great. What happens if somebody—”

Flynn kissed Wyatt to shut him up. He carried far fewer concerns about the whole ordeal. He always had.

“Just—” Flynn tried to kiss him again, but Wyatt pulled away. “Lock the door. Lock the door,” he exclaimed. He would not risk someone walking in on them. Being in the 18th century, they would be lucky if it were only Rufus or Lucy.

“We’d need the key,” Flynn murmured. He kissed Wyatt’s cheek while his hands continued working on his pants. “You need a key to lock a door in this century.”

“I hate time travel.”

Flynn moved in closer. He put his forearm against the wall and leaned on it, thus eclipsing much of Wyatt from the doorway. It would do nothing against an intruder. They would still make Wyatt out as a man— one specific man— from what bits of his clothes and face they would see. But the gesture Flynn offered was considerate. There was no better place to hide in the small room, not with its petite furniture and open design. A tall terrorist was the only thing in the room capable of concealing Wyatt from the door, if still inadequately.

“We’ll make it a quickie,” Flynn said. It was different than the other times, those instances when they went slow for each other’s sake.

“So much for relieving tension,” Wyatt muttered. He felt incredibly on edge, and yet it was not a feeling to be scorned entirely. There was excitement that came from sneaking around with Flynn, and they were playing their most dangerous round yet.

“Get started,” Flynn ordered. His pants were already open, but Wyatt was impeding progress.

“Yeah, yeah.” Wyatt pulled up his shirt and found the high waist of his trousers. The entire outfit was a fashion disaster that made no sense. “I hate these goddamn pants,” he huffed. There were so many buttons holding the things together. “Why the hell did it take so long to invent a goddamn zipper?”

Flynn chuckled and, while Wyatt worked, reached into one of the many pockets inside his coat. “Put this on,” he instructed, and he handed Wyatt a condom.

Wyatt had never made a habit of wearing one while beating off, but Flynn always presented it as a cleaner option. “Efficient,” he remarked. He opened the condom and began rolling it on. Flynn did the same.

“Have enough clandestine meetings,” the man said, “learn a thing or two... from trial and error.”

Wyatt wanted to say that his own life and branch of service were mostly populated by men, but he had a feeling Flynn would say the same, as if it were no excuse. “I’d never do this with any other guy,” Wyatt said, reminding Flynn of that even at the expense of making him feel special.

“I know,” Flynn replied. They had taken from each other, back and forth, until sex was a little more natural, until it was something Wyatt could wrap his head around. “Lucky me.” Flynn squeezed lube onto his palm. He was intimidatingly straightforward. When he went slow, he was slow, but when he went fast, Wyatt could barely keep up. It certainly kept him on his toes enough to afford no time to changing his mind.

Wyatt swallowed nervously and held out his hand. Flynn dispensed lube onto his palm. “So do we, uh...” Flynn grabbed his cock. “Okay! We do.”

“Shh,” Flynn cautioned through a smile. He moved his hand down Wyatt’s hardening length, and even through the condom, it felt good. He rubbed his thumb over the head. “Come on, Wyatt,” he encouraged. For once, he was requesting cooperation instead of taking it in some way.

Wyatt nodded his head. He put his clean hand on the back of Flynn’s neck and dragged him closer for a kiss. It was distracting enough to take the edge off what he was doing.

It was different from before, when Wyatt had the man handcuffed on the floor in front of him. The angle was different. He was pulling down and towards himself instead of away. It did not have the easy transition from imagining himself masturbating. This was more distinct. There was a learning curved involved, but Flynn was patient with him while he got there. He pleasured Wyatt with no indication that his own gain was lacking. And he was good.

Wyatt’s hips moved with Flynn’s hand, unable to keep still. Perhaps it was the man’s indiscriminate approach to sex, perhaps it was more years of experience, but Flynn had a real knack for it all. Even just a handjob was praiseworthy. He worked almost as well as Wyatt did when touching himself, as if he knew all the best focal points, and pressures, and speeds. Of course, for all Wyatt knew, those were simply the perks that came from sex with a man. It made sense to indulge— in its own insane way.

Wyatt tried to get out of his head and his reservations and instead think of how experience with himself was supposed to make things better for Flynn.

It was an unfamiliar angle, but the same overall principle: close hand and move hand. This he had been doing for nearly twenty years. Wyatt grabbed and stroked in a display of that ability.

Flynn noticed the change, the half-assed effort to give a damn. “There... you go,” he grunted. He moved his lips against Wyatt’s before pulling back. Breath and words broke across his face. “I was beginning to think you were just... bad... at this.”

“Nah,” Wyatt said. “Just don’t go... running around looking for practice like you do.” He as good as called Flynn a slut, but the man did not care. He passed the benefits of his actions right on to his partner. Wyatt was lucky enough to have been that person over the past few weeks.

Flynn kept his fingers loose and supportive but pressed in with the curve of his thumb, giving a contrast on each side. Wyatt tried to follow his lead. Flynn kept a repetitive movement going, predictable in a good way, but every so often, he would pull his hand down and swipe his thumb or finger over the head. Wyatt moaned and mimicked him in a way that was most likely sloppy but still pleasurable. Flynn did not complain. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

It was a quick and decent substitute for sex, but Wyatt still could not help but remember and imagine. “Mm, god, I wish I was in your ass right now,” he exhaled. It was the truth, and he felt no shame from speaking it in the heat of the moment. He liked degrading this powerful man. He liked to fantasize about dominating him.

“Yes, me too.” The response was just vague enough that Wyatt did not know if Flynn envisioned the same position as him or if there was a different picture, one of Wyatt laid out beneath him. He preferred not to think about Flynn screwing him again. It had been a compelling experience, but once was enough for a lifetime. “How would you do it?”

“Kinky son of a bitch,” Wyatt laughed. Even in the middle of things, Flynn still liked to hear whatever filth was circling in Wyatt’s head. It was such an odd quirk. “The couch,” he said, and he nodded at the thing. It was too small to be of practical use of, but, “I’d be- bend you over... make you lean on it, facedown.” He could almost see the man’s ass up in the air, waiting for him. “After we barricaded the goddamn door.” They both chuckled.

Flynn kissed him. He pushed his tongue in Wyatt’s mouth and clutched at his hair with his free hand. “Does sound good,” he admitted. Wyatt did not ask for the alternative take, and yet Flynn gave it to him. “Against the wall,” he said. “I’d... pick you up, let you wrap your... legs around me.” Wyatt was not sure if Flynn had the upper body strength to hold him up that long, but fantasies needed no such demonstrations. “Knock you... up against this damn wall,” he pushed Wyatt into it for emphasis, “until someone came to check what was going on.”

It sounded horrible yet hot, and it was abhorred simply for the fact that it was not impossible to imagine. “You are not doing that to me again,” Wyatt stated, speaking it very seriously to convey his resolve in the matter.

“Never say never,” Flynn chastised.

Wyatt was learning that nothing was ever certain and that not even recorded history was set in stone. But he had a pretty good feeling about Flynn fucking him again. “Never,” he defied.

His obstinacy was received with humor and then quickly disregarded. Flynn continued on, giving his decision no heed. He moved in on Wyatt, and their shoulders touched on the side Flynn was using to lean against the wall. Their laboring hands were given proper space between them. Wyatt kept his free hand on Flynn’s shoulder, gripping and squeezing the heavy cloth of his coat. They would be done soon, very soon.

Flynn stopped. He held Wyatt’s cock and squeezed it to get his attention. “Shh!” he hissed. They stood perfectly still as footsteps walked past the door outside.

They waited without breathing.

They waited in a position that was not as compromising as it could have been and yet dispelled innocence under even a quick observation.

They waited.

The door across the hall opened and the person went inside.

Flynn exhaled. “Well, that was scary,” he said, but he was grinning.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Wyatt scoffed.

“Come on, and you don’t?” Flynn countered. “There is, after all, a reason we chose such dangerous jobs, Wyatt. We like... the rush, the high. We get off,” he kissed him and began moving his hand again, “on it.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Wyatt claimed, and by saying it, he realized that he incidentally admitted it was true.

“No,” Flynn concurred, “but it is,” he moved his hips against Wyatt’s stationary hand, “a lot more sexy than patriotism.” Wyatt began jerking him off again. “But if that gets you going too, I can... sing the national anthem maybe?”

“God, I wish you had an off switch,” Wyatt groaned. He enjoyed some of Flynn’s quips, but there was a time and a place for them. The man would be a lot more tolerable during their trysts if he were silent— or if he put that voice to good use and said something purposeful towards what they were doing. But if Flynn was not going to inject some dirty talk, maybe Wyatt could. “Love to shut you up good,” he muttered. “Keep that damn mouth of yours busy. Maybe then you couldn’t joke around so much.”

Flynn moaned in his throat. For him, there were no wins or losses during sex, only different acts to perform. Wyatt was the one obsessed with control. It was a little intriguing to think that maybe Flynn was not entirely opposed to giving him another blowjob. “I’d like to see you return the favor sometime,” he said, the very proposition Wyatt feared. Where Flynn conceded control, he enforced fair play. “There’s so much we could get up to together,” he teased.

“No more,” Wyatt said. “This is... This is—” Flynn fondled his balls for an extra stimulation and he groaned— “it. After this we’re...”

“Through?” Flynn finished for him. He did not believe it. Wyatt kept reopening to door of possibility wide for him. He waited for the day Wyatt gave up entirely, stopped fighting. “We’re good together,” he said, and even he sounded surprised by that, as if he never expected it when they started. “Let’s not be wasteful, hm.” His hand was so strong yet soft and pleasing. “Let me make you feel good, Wyatt.” He represented himself as so selfless, so giving. Nothing was ever free with him. “And you me.” It was almost a fair deal. He was so experienced against Wyatt’s bumbling attempts with a man. One of them was getting a better bargain, and all it cost was Wyatt’s morals.

“Not now,” he asked, wanting the conversation to be put off. He was horny and out of his head, but maybe that was where Flynn liked him best: disoriented.

“Of course,” the man permitted. “Later then.” He kissed Wyatt’s lips and neck. His tongue delved into the dip of his collarbone, exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

“God,” Wyatt whispered, “yes. Please, yes.” If life and situations and fugitive status were a little more decent, his decision would so much easier. He would fall easier. The man was seductive. The thought was horrifying. “Just kiss me,” he asked. It was more distracting to act instead of being acted upon. Flynn obliged him.

They kissed and drew apart every few seconds to catch their breath. When they came nearer to the end, Wyatt found it harder to look the man in the face. They were both of them open, and vulnerable, and human, undeniably human. Wyatt did not want to see Flynn like that. He wished they were not facing. He wished they were not so very close. But they were, so Wyatt closed his eyes tight and turned his head to the side. But he made sure to keep his hand going just the same.

Flynn took advantage of his stretched neck. He could not keep his mouth off Wyatt, or he chose not to. He kissed and licked the skin. He drew it between his teeth and nibbled but left no mark. Wyatt moaned at the sensations: Flynn’s hand and his mouth. It was damn near perfect. He was so close.

“Wyatt,” Flynn panted against his cheek. His forehead rubbed clumsily against Wyatt’s, slick from sweat. “Say it... Say it again, Wyatt.”

He could mean only one thing, and Wyatt would not say please. He would not beg during a situation where they each had equal control of the other. “No.”

“Wyatt,” he asked, “say it.”

The overuse of his name was prominent and distinct, and Wyatt realized what Flynn was actually requesting. “Mm, Garcia,” he whispered. It made the man stutter in his actions. It made him sigh. “Garcia.” Flynn was no longer accustomed to such familiarity. He had become disacquainted with the simple gesture of someone saying his name. He was oversensitive to it. Flynn’s left arm moved down between Wyatt and the wall and pulled their bodies closer together. He pressed his cheek against Wyatt’s and listened to his name being whispered in his ear. “Gar... cia.”

It was such an irresponsible gesture, given by Wyatt when he was trying his hardest to forget whom he was with. The name helped Flynn, a man who liked it facing, who liked it intimate. Wyatt’s identity never bothered him, not once. They were so opposite and incompatible. And yet Wyatt got off every time. It was true what Flynn said. As much as Wyatt did not want to admit it, they were good together.

“God, so good,” he said. “Keep going. I’m almost there. Mm, Garcia. I’m almost. I’m almost...” Flynn stopped moving and held Wyatt in his hand. “Bastard,” he groaned. “What the hell?” He was in no mood for games, but Flynn loved them, always.

“Me first,” he insisted. He kissed Wyatt as a claim to ongoing affection. “I don’t... trust you when you have nothing at stake.”

Wyatt wanted to dispute the matter, but that never got him anywhere with the man. It would only spoil the mood. Before thinking too hard and allowing that to happen, Wyatt picked up the rhythm of his hand, rubbing Flynn’s cock as quickly as he could without being rough. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed at him. “Manipulative asshole.”

Flynn grunted and leaned heavily on the wall and on Wyatt. “Almost,” he said, deaf to the ire being spewed a him. “I’m close... Come on, Wyatt.”

“Do it,” Wyatt told him. He moved his hand with the sole purpose of getting his enemy off. It should not have been so alluring. “Come on, Garcia, damn it. Get there. Cum for me.” The last was a very amorous and normal thing to say, like a couple might, and yet it worked. Being ordered, being coaxed, being entreated, Flynn came.

He sighed then went stock-still and quiet but for his panting breath. His eyes were closed but in a peaceful way, not scrunched together tightly. His cock twitched in Wyatt’s hand as it ejaculated into the condom. Flynn found bliss and tranquility in orgasm, every time. It was one of the last places he could get it.

Wyatt afforded him a minute to pull himself back together, but that was all he was giving. He released his hand and let go of Flynn. “Come on,” he goaded. He thrust into Flynn’s lax grip. “Move. Move, you bastard. Come on.”

Flynn inhaled through his nose, a sniff, and nodded his head. His hand tightened and resumed. He shoved Wyatt onto the wall and moved his body with his fist, close and away, forward and back like thrusting, penetrating sex.

“God,” Wyatt drawled. “Just like that, Fl— Garcia. Keep going just like that, you beautiful son of a bitch.” With his eyes closed, Wyatt tried to turn his head towards the ceiling, but Flynn took the upward movement as a request for a kiss. Wyatt came in Flynn’s hand and with his tongue in his mouth.

Flynn slowed his jerking hand, winding Wyatt down instead of stopping abruptly. His kiss became more affectionate and gentle, retreating to a chaste quality. It was almost sweet and caring, and maybe Wyatt was glad he did not have to worry about getting Flynn off after he came and was momentarily exhausted from it. Maybe that was the point of going in order.

“Come here,” Flynn murmured. He grabbed Wyatt’s arm and led him to a chair to sit down. Wyatt fell into it and caught his breath.

“Maybe I did need that,” he admitted, yielded. He said it before his brain caught up enough to rationalize that doing so was a bad idea.

Flynn hummed but did not care enough to verbalize his agreement. He was more practically distracted. There was an ornate pitcher of water on a table in the corner. He poured it onto a hand-stitched doily. Wyatt scoffed and looked away as Flynn removed his condom and wiped himself with the embroidery.

“So they’ll make another one,” Flynn said, indifferent to Wyatt’s judgment over him soiling the thing. “They’ve got nothing but time in this century.” He buttoned his pants and knelt in front of Wyatt.

“I can do this myself,” Wyatt said, but he made no move to do so. He tried not to be embarrassed as Flynn simply shrugged and removed the sticky condom. As he was cleaned off, Wyatt was reminded of their first time together, when Flynn made him all nice and presentable again. Wyatt did pull up his boxers and button his pants by himself. He could. His hands were free. There were no handcuffs, no rope, not this time.

Flynn came to an erect posture, tall and imposing but with shoulders that slumped in some attempt to make himself less intimidating, more approachable.

“We should... get back,” Wyatt said. He was not ready but they needed to. When he stood in the scant space between Flynn and the chair, he was right up against the man. His hand hesitated between them before patting Flynn’s chest two quick times. It was a very awkward gesture to close on. Flynn decided a kiss was more appropriate.

His large hands and long fingers caressed the sides of Wyatt’s face. His thumb rubbed against his cheek. Wyatt let his hands hesitate before dropping them against Flynn’s coat— not grabbing, just touching. Their lips smacked against each other, a loud and wet sound in the still room. Wyatt barely noticed the stubble around Flynn’s mouth anymore, and what an alarming realization that should have been. They kept everything perfectly juvenile and had no interest towards deepening the kiss. It was less about working up to something and more about working down, working away from what they just did— again.

“Tell me,” Wyatt spoke, mouthing it against Flynn’s lips. He pulled back just a little, just enough for room to elaborate. “Before we start in on all this, tell me the name of Jessica’s killer. Tell me the name, Flynn... Garcia.” Wyatt continued using the name in an attempt to win advantage. Without regret, he would manipulate Flynn’s actions, as Flynn did for him. “I need to know you have one. I need to know I can trust you.”

“I need to know I can trust you,” Flynn countered. “You like to change your mind about me, and I want... to keep it focused in one direction just for a little while. I have a name, Wyatt. If you help me, it’s yours. I promise.” His expression and tone of voice were very earnest when he said, “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.” He understood firsthand how important it was.

“Don’t,” Wyatt commanded. “Don’t lie about it.”

Flynn dragged his hands up and down the sleeves of Wyatt’s jacket, caressing his arms and attempting to soothe his doubts. “No lies. No... no tricks.” He grabbed Wyatt’s hands in each of his and held them. “We can both win. I save my family... You get the name of Jessica’s killer. Whatever you choose to do with it is up to you.” Flynn was the one person who would never judge Wyatt over how far he went with it, if he chose to go there.

“Yeah.” Wyatt nodded his head and pulled his hands away from Flynn’s. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Not like I can make you tell me, so... I’m yours.” It was, perhaps, a poor choice of words, so he clarified. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, Wyatt.” He was grateful, but his face was kept emotionless to prevent betraying how much the assistance meant to him.

Wyatt looked around for a mirror to check himself, but the luxury item of the 18th century was not present where they were. “How do I look?” he asked instead, depending on Flynn to gauge how put together he was.

The handkerchief from the man’s pocket was soft on Wyatt’s face as he wiped away smeared or beaded sweat. Flynn’s long fingers were delicate when he swept each strand of his hair into its most unsuspecting placement. He pulled Wyatt’s shirt collar out of his waistcoat and situated his jacket until he was satisfied. He punctuated the adjustments with a kiss, though that was hardly necessary.

When he pulled back, Flynn asked, “And me? How is it I come off?” He ran a hand through his hair, the only thing wrong.

Wyatt looked him up and down. “Fine,” he said, “somehow.” It was almost frustrating. “You always look so damn put together and...” He almost said attractive— or one of its synonyms.

Flynn smirked, perhaps knowing what Wyatt did not say. “Nothing to do now but...” He nodded his head at the door. Wyatt took a step towards it, but Flynn decided he was not quite finished speaking yet. “If this works,” he said, “if Rittenhouse is erased, I won’t be a wanted man when we return.” He smiled, and it lacked the arrogance that usually came with the expression. It was almost timid. “You won’t... have to kill me anymore. In fact,” he chuckled, “it would be murder if you did.”

“I don’t kill because I want to,” Wyatt said, though so often he had wanted to drop Flynn dead. “I got orders. Without them...” He sighed. “Guess we go our separate ways, huh?”

“Guess we do.” Flynn nodded. “Although... it’s been fun, Wyatt,” he said. “No reason to stop now.”

“And what, cheat on that wife you love so damn much?”

“I’m not... going back to my wife,” Flynn said, an ashamed whisper, “not to stay.” He refused eye contact. “I’m not the man she fell in love with anymore, not after all I’ve done.” He had nothing to add, and Wyatt had no consoling comment he wanted to give. Silence dragged until the subject faded. “Maybe,” Flynn said, “in the present day, I’ll... ask for a place to stay until I find a more permanent residence.”

He was audaciously suggesting that he crash in Wyatt’s cramped little apartment, no doubt intending to hump like rabbits the entire time. It was almost laughable. Wyatt was not laughing. “One step at a time.” It was not an absolute no, and Wyatt hated himself for being unable to give one. The future was widely unpredictable. He was used to rolling with whatever life sent his way.

Flynn recognized the ambiguity of the statement and did not comment on it one way or the other, not to mock, not to question. “We’ll stagger our returns,” he said. “You go first.”

Wyatt nodded his head and picked his shoulders up with a deep breath. He turned from Flynn, no fleeting glance nor last kiss. Once again, they were through.

He took a leisurely pace down the hall, feeling the full weight of his guilt and shame, but it was getting easier to pack them away, to compartmentalize. What he did with Flynn felt removed from reality. It was simple to remove it from his thoughts.

Wyatt stood outside the dining room for just a few seconds before turning in. Lucy and Rufus were sitting at the table and discussing the journal pages between them. They looked up when he entered.

“Where’s Flynn?” Lucy asked. She glanced at Wyatt’s hands as though she were expecting to see blood on them.

“Never found him,” Wyatt lied.

“And you were running around the whole house ‘til you gave up?” Rufus questioned. “Your face is sorta red, dude.” Clearly, Wyatt was not as composed as Flynn claimed.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just a damn Easter egg hunt looking for a bathroom around here.” The story convinced them or dissuaded further pursuit of the subject.

There were footsteps followed by a looming presence behind Wyatt. Lucy and Rufus looked over his shoulder.

“Ready to go?” Flynn asked, speaking it so closely behind Wyatt— too close.

“We’re still... mulling it over,” Rufus told him.

“Mull while we walk,” Flynn said. He waved his hand, motioning them through the doorway.

Lucy and Rufus came to their feet, and Flynn extended his arm, courteously offering the lead in leaving the house. Rufus passed. Lucy passed. Wyatt passed. Flynn came quick behind him and with little delay and no sense of propriety, put his hand on Wyatt’s ass and gave a little squeeze.

Wyatt barely kept himself from yelping or shouting in surprise. He rounded on the man. His voice was a hissing whisper when he stuck a finger in Flynn’s face and threatened, “That’s one.”

“Do I get just the one, or is it baseball?” Flynn inquired with a grin.

Wyatt did not dignify the question with a response. He brushed past him and picked up his pace until he was walking between Rufus and Lucy. He had a feeling it was about to be a very long day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They totally fucked later in the woods or something, I dunno. Flynn and Wyatt work very well together in 1x10. Very in sync. Very on the same page. That’s all I’m saying.
> 
> Obviously, I didn’t go for Rufus or Lucy walking in on them. Although I could have. But meh. I don’t need drama on top of drama. I don’t even know how they would react, whoever it would be that walked in on them. Rufus would probably yell his token, “What the hell!” Lucy would be a lot more awkward with it. Yelling at Flynn to get off of him, then realizing it was mutual. Wyatt shouting at her to get out. Lucy covering her eyes but also looking through her fingers to make sure she saw that right. Trying to back out of the door. Missing the door and bumping into the wall. Apologizing while still switching between covering her eyes and peeking. Yeah. Haha.
> 
> I’m submitting one more little chapter. I just wanted to add a few lines into Flynn/Wyatt’s phone conversation at the end of 1x11. For fun.


	5. Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bonus chapter. Because that phone call in 1x11 was very good for me, and I wanted to incorporate it into this fic’s universe.

An unknown phone number was rarely a matter of concern with Wyatt. It was a misdial more than anything. He would reconsider his flippant opinion.

“This is Wyatt.”

“Congratulations. You checked out of The World’s Fair Hotel alive.”

Flynn’s voice— distant and unreachable, inexterminable— was a far cry from how Wyatt wanted to end his day. Being suffocated in a room with a serial killer was not supposed to turn worse.

“How’d you get this number?”

“From your phone, dear,” Flynn answered, “when you were sleeping.”

“What do you want, Flynn?” Wyatt had no patience for the man. He had no interest in conversation.

Flynn’s breath was loud and prominent on the other end of the line. His voice was deep. It was coarse and crude. “What are you wearing?”

“Go to hell,” Wyatt sneered.

“Oh, there was that other thing,” he added before Wyatt could hang up. On a silver platter, as promised, Flynn presented the name of Jessica’s killer. He wrapped it nicely in instructions, in implications, of what was to be done about it: kill Gilliam’s parents. “I was going to do it for you, you know,” Flynn said. “Well, if not for you then at least be a... support while you did it yourself. Either way, I would have taken you there in the _Mothership_. I would have helped. I would have been understanding in a way that, uh, none of you really were for me.”

“Make me do it or make me watch,” Wyatt scoffed, “but never just do it yourself, never just save Jessica out of the goodness of your heart.”

“No,” Flynn confirmed. “No, you wouldn’t get to remain in the present. You wouldn’t get to stay in the timeline that changes, the one where you have no memory, no. We would save Jessica— together— and you would be... grateful to me.” He took a deep breath that crinkled over the phone as static. “But obviously that’s not going to happen. You won’t owe me anything and now... I don’t owe you. There’s your name, Wyatt, as promised. We’re even.” Their recurrent relationship atop the scale was balanced once again.

“You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Wyatt said. “Don’t you forget that one damn minute.”

“I know,” Flynn said. He did. He was aware of the fact. “You— all... of you— detested me for going after John, for contemplating something so evil. Well... now, Wyatt, it’s _our_  evil, another thing we share. You’ve sank to my level before, followed my example. Now, you get to know yourself, to know how far you’re willing to go. And I am... happy... to share.” He laughed a cruel laugh.

“I don’t want it,” Wyatt stated. He almost wished Flynn had been an ass and kept it to himself. It was worse to share the information. That was why Flynn told him.

“And you know what’s really fun?” Flynn went on. Wyatt could hear his insincere grin manifest itself into a sarcastic tone. “If you do it, if you actually do kill those innocent people and bring your precious Jessica back to life, I...” He snickered. “I’ll never know, will I? If you go off on your own, and if you succeed, I’ll be in a universe where she lived. Talk about a load off, right? You can make the choice to be as dark as you choose, and I’ll be one of the last people who will even know.”

“That’s...” One of Mason’s employees came down the stairs, and Wyatt turned around, huddling closer inside his locker and cradling the phone against his ear. He felt exposed. He felt like it was so obvious, whom he was talking to and what they were talking about. “I’m hanging up.”

“If you get a little... lonely later,” Flynn wickedly suggested, “you have my number now, don’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. We’re done.”

“You said that last time,” Flynn recalled. “And... the time before that. And the time before that, I believe. So forgive me if I don’t—”

Wyatt hung up the phone.

“God,” he groaned. He felt screwed at every corner. And somehow, some way, he knew Flynn would only keep their secret so long as torturing Wyatt was the more enjoyable option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hard not to turn this into phone sex. But who’s to say Wyatt doesn’t call that number back late at night? When he’s alone. And super drunk.
> 
> Okay, short of inspiration really whacking me over the head, this fic is done. Really though, we’ll just have to wait and see what the last few episodes have in store for Flynn and Wyatt and if I can pervert any of it. But for now, done.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for 'All Tied Up and No Place to Go'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9587039) by [uglybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglybusiness/pseuds/uglybusiness)




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